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THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
/'.
1 V
THE PHYSICIAN
THE PHYSICIAN
AN ORIGINAL PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
BY
HENRY ARTHUR JONES
AUTHOR OF
'MICHAEL AND MIS LOST ANGEL,' 'THE CRUSADERS,' 'THE CASE
OK REBELLIOUS SUSAN," 'jUDAH,' 'THE MIDDLEMAN,' ' THK
TRIUMPH OF THE PHILISTINES,' ' THE DANCING GIRL,"
'the TEMPTER,' 'THE ROGUe's COMEDY,' 'THE
MASQUERADERS,' ' THE LIARS,' 'THE GOAL,'
'the MANOEUVRES OF JANE,' ETC.
ILontian
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1899
All rights resenvd
Copyright in the United States of America.
-?56
All the dramatic and performing rights of this
play are the separate property of Mr. Henry
•Arthur Jones, and are strictly reserved in the
United Kingdom, the English Colonies, America,
and the United States.
8611SS
Produced by Mr. Charles Wyndham at the Criterion
Theatre, London, on 25th March 1897.
PERSONS REPRESENTED
Dr. Lewin Carey.
Walter AMriiiEL.
Reverenh Pkregkine Hindi:.
Dr. Brooker.
Stephen Gurdon.
James Hehrings.
John Diiuey.
Viccars.
Edana Hinde.
Lady Valerie Camville.
Mrs. Bowden.
Mrs. Dirl'ey.
Louisa Pack.
Marah Gurdon, a child.
Saunders, Lady Valerie's maid.
Lizzie, the Vicarage servant.
ACT I
Scene — Consulting-Room at Ur. Lewin Carey's,
39 Cavendish Square.
{Three months pass.)
i
ACT II
Scene — Saint Edana's Well and Church, Fontlkas.
.; {Six months pass.)
ACT III
Scene — The Abbots Kitchen, Fontleas.
{Nine months pass. )
ACT IV
Scene — The Vicarage Drawing-Room, Fontleas.
Titne. — Present Day.
The following is a copy of the original play-bill of
" The Physician.''
CRITERION THEATRE.
Lessee and Manager — Mr. Charles Wyndham.
On Thursday, 25th March 1897, for the first time,
A new Play of modern life, in Four Acts, entitled
THE PHYSICIAN
By HENRY ARTHUR JONES
Dr. Lewin Carey
Rev. Peregrine Hinde
Walter Amphiei.
Dk. Bkooker
Stephen Guruon
Ja.mes Hebbings .
John Dibley
Viccars
Postman
Lady Valerie Camville
Mrs. Bovvden
Mrs. Dibley
Louisa Pack
Marah
Lizzie ....
Saunders .
Edana Hinde
Ml. Charles Wyndham.
Mr. Alfred Bishop.
Mr. T. B. Thalberg.
Mr. Leslie Kenyon.
Mr. J. C. Taylor.
Mr. Kenneth Douglas,
Mr. A. E. George.
Mr. F. IL Tyler.
Mr. F. Vigay.
Miss Marion Terry.
Miss E. Vining.
Miss Carlotta Addison.
Miss Jocelyn.
Miss Valli Valli.
Miss M. Clayton.
Miss D. Fellowes.
Miss Mary Moore.
ACT I
Consulting-Room at Dr. Lewin Carey's,
39 Cavendish Square.
( Three months pass. )
THE PHYSICIAN ix
ACT II
Saint Edana's Well and Church at Fontleas
(Walter Hann).
(Six months pass. )
ACT III
The Abbot's Kitchen, Fontleas (Walter Hann).
t (Ten months pass.)
ACT IV
The Vicarage, Fontleas.
Time. — The Present.
There will be an interval of about ten minutes between Acts I. , II. ,
III., and about five minutes between Acts III. and IV.
Matinees of "The Physician," Wednesday, 31st March,
Saturday, 3rd April, and every following Saturday.
Stage Manager — Mr. Percy Hutchison.
Musical Director — Mr. VICTOR HOLLAENDER.
Acting Manager and Treasurer — Mr. E. Harvey.
ACT I
Scene — Consulting-Room at Dr. Lewin Carey's,
Cavendish Square, a substantially furnished
Room, such as would be used by a London
Physician in good Practice.
Door doivn stage l. Door at back L. Fireplace at
back R. IVindotvs R. Book-cases, containing
medical works, roujid the roo7n. One or two good
oil paintings.
Time : late on an April afternoon.
Enter door at back, Viccars, Dr. Carey's butler,
showing in Walter Amphiel. Amphiel is a
pale, thin, and very delicate- looking man about
thirty ; striking, earnest features, with a winning,
lovable expression ; rather weak 7nouth ; restless,
furtive eyes with a hunted look in them. His
ordinary manner is absent, dreamy, self-absorbed,
and there is a strangeness and indecision in his
movements and speech, but this at times gives place
to fits of feverish ener^v.
2 THE PHYSICIAN act i
ViccARS. Dr. Carey is attending a consultation,
sir, but I expect him back shortly.
Amphiel. I'll wait.
ViccARS. What name shall I say ?
Amphiel. My name doesn't matter. I'll wait.
{Exit ViccARS at back.)
{AM^m-E.h furtively watches Viccars off, and
as soon as the door has closed, goes
quickly to the book-shelves, runs his eye
eagerly over the?n as if searching for
something, takes out a particular book,
looks at index, opens it at a certain
page, sits down, reads eagerly. A short
pause.)
Etiter Viccars at back, shoiving in Dr. Brooker, a
middle-aged man, brisk, genial, robust ; sanguine
complexion ; a little stout, a little bald.
{As Brooker enters, Amphiel shows recogni-
tion and a little onbarrassment, hiding
his head behind his book.)
Brooker {enteritig). Thank you, Viccars. Dr.
Carey does expect me, doesn't he ?
Viccars. Yes, sir. He left word if you came
that he'd be back almost at once. Shall I get you
anything after your journey, sir ?
Brooker. No, thank you. Well, just a cup of
tea, if you'll be so good. {Exit Viccars at back.)
ACT 1 THE PHYSICIAN , 3
Brooker {sitting doivn, catches sight of Amphiel's
face as he looks up furtively from his book). I beg par-
don, my name is Brooker — Dr. Brooker of Folkestone.
I've had the pleasure of meeting you somewhere ?
Amphiel (^ivith slight etnbarrasstnetit). I think not
— I don't remember you.
Brooker (still looking at hi?n). I suppose I was
mistaken. Your face seemed familiar to me.
' {A little pause.)
Amphiel. Very interesting place, a doctor's con-
sulting-room ?
Brooker. H'm ! — not very — to the doctor.
Amphiel. This room, for instance. How many
strange stories and confessions these walls must have
listened to ! How many men and women must have
entered that door with hope in their hearts, and
received their death sentence, sitting perhaps where I
am sitting now !
Brooker. Oh, don't speak of us as if we were
bloodthirsty hanging judges. Say rather how many
men have entered that door with despair in their
hearts and gone out cheered and comforted !
Amphiel. Dr. Carey is marvellously skilful in
certain — certain nervous diseases, isn't he ?
Brooker. He's marvellously skilful in all kinds
of diseases. He has made a great reputation with
nerve diseases, simply because this is a nervous age.
Everybody is suffering from neurasthenia to-day.
Except myself, thank God !
4 THE PHYSICIAN act i
VicCARS re-enters L. with tea on salver^ which he brings
to Dr. Brooker. K^wyh^i. puts book on table,
open.
Brooker (^looking steadily at Amphiel). Surely I
— didn't you consult me one Sunday evening three or
four years ago ?
Amphiel. No, no, I've never met you. {To
ViccARS.) Dr. Carey hasn't returned.* {Takes out
watch.) I'll call again by and by.
{Exit Amphiel at back rather hurriedly^
VicCARS {at door, looking after him, calling off).
The door, Thomas.
{Meantime Brooker has taken up the book
tvhich Amphiel has put down. He
looks at the page, raises his eyebrows,
puts book on table again, leaving it open!)
Brooker {taking tea). And how have you been
all this time, Viccars ?
Viccars. I've kept pretty tolerable, I thank you, sir.
Brooker. And Dr. Carey?
Viccars. About as usual, sir.
Brooker. He wrote me rather an urgent letter.
I thought perhaps something was wrong. (Viccars
does not reply. There is a short pause.) He has had
no trouble, no misfortune, no loss ?
Viccars. No, sir. At least, none that it's any
business of mine to take notice of.
Brooker. You're right, Viccars. Of course, I
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 5
didn't wish you to speak of Dr. Carey's affairs. He's
quite well ?
ViccARS. In body, I believe, quite well, sir.
Though, of course, the journey to Egypt and his
attendance on the Pasha have fagged him a good deal.
Brooker. You went with him, Viccars ?
ViccARS. Yes, sir. I had that honour. Dr.
Carey waited on the Pasha night and day, and I
wafted on Dr. Carey. It was wonderful to watch him.
Brooker. How — wonderful ?
Viccars. He seemed determined to keep the life
in the old fellow. I don't know what it is about Dr.
Cai-ey, but he seems to have got that in him — well, I
can't describe it — but if once Dr. Carey makes up his
mind that a certain patient shall live, it seems more
than that patient dare do to die, and it's more than
Death dare do to lay hands on him.
Brooker. And Death did not lay hands on the
Pasha ?
Viccars. No, sir. We pulled the old chap
through and left him happy, and comparatively rollick-
ing, so to speak, with his four wives. I think I heard
the carriage. {Looking out of windozv.) Yes, here
is Dr. Carey. {Crossing to door at back.)
Viccars opens door. Dr. Carey enters.
{Exit Viccars.)
(Dr. Lewin Carey is a man of f7-om forty-
five to fifty. He has a strong intellectual
6 THE PHYSICIAN act i
face ; sensitive mobile features, withfre-
qicently cha?tging play of hu»iour and
melancholy ; kind penetratifig eyes ; a
tender caressing voice ; calm, restrained,
professional manner. He comes very
affectionately to Brooker, takes his
hand, holds it some moments withoitt
speaking.)
Dr. C. My dear fellow, I knew you^d come.
Brooker. Why, of course. I didn't understand
your letter.
Dr. C. I want to consult you about myself.
(Brooker looks astonished. Dr. Carey
motions him to a seat. During the
follo-cving scene Brooker is seated. Dr.
Carey sometimes sits, sojnetimes stands,
sometimes ivalks about.)
Brooker. What's the matter ?
Dr. C. Everything. Nothing. You'll call it
neurasthenia, and you'll give me some placebo, which
I shan't believe in, and which I shan't take.
Brooker. But I'm only a country practitioner.
The best man for nerves is Lewin Carey, 39 Cavendish
Square. Why don't you go to him ?
Dr. C. I have, but he only laughs at me and
says : " Physician, heal thyself" That's the one
thing that rings constantly in my ears day and night,
"Physician, heal thyself! Physician, heal thyself."
I can't, Brooker.
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 7
Brooker. Go on. Tell me all.
Dr. C. My dear old fellow, have patience with
me ! The last fifteen years, while you've been
comfortably ploughing and whistling on your way
amongst rural measles and accouchements, I've stood
here an open receptacle for all the nervous diseases
of the age to be poured into. And the mischief is,
Brooker, I'm so sympathetic, I've caught them all.
'Brooker. You're a httle overworked.
Dr. C. No, it's not that. I'm just at the prime
of life with a splendid constitution. I'm getting to
the top of my profession, I'm richer than my needs,
I'm honoured, feted, envied — and yet, by God,
Brooker, I don't believe there's in any London slum,
or jail, or workhouse, a poor wretch with such a
horrible despair in his heart as I have to-day.
Brooker. You know the causes of nervous
breakdown. What past excess is calling on you for
payment ?
Dr. C. My youth was pretty much about the
average. I don't pretend to justify it. I don't
pretend to regret it. If any past excess is calling on
me for payment now, it's excess of work rather than
excess of pleasure.
Brooker. And since your youth? {Pause.) Is
there any woman in this business, Carey ?
Dr. C. I've had an attachment for some years
past. I won't tell you her name, though you can
easily learn it if you care to inquire. Seven years ago
8 THE PHYSICIAN act i
I met one of the most beautiful women in London.
She had married a blackguard, who neglected her.
And certainly she had as much excuse as ever a
woman had for forming other ties. Her husband has
lived abroad for years, and practically doesn't exist.
I go out very little, as you know, but she goes a great
deal into society.
Brooker. And what has society said to this ?
Dr. C. Society, with its perfect gopd- nature, its
perfect tact and sympathy with a genuine attachment
such as ours, has nodded and smiled, and whispered
no doubt, but has never o/>efi/y said one word against
her.
Brooker. This attachment — does it continue?
Dk. C. No. For some time I have felt that she
has cared for me less and less. When I came back
from Egypt a month ago I found a letter from her,
breaking it off.
Brooker. And you've not seen her ?
Dr. C. No, she's travelling abroad. I've written
to her several times begging her to return, but she
hasn't replied.
Brooker. And so you're steadily breaking your
heart for this woman ?
Dr. C. I miss her terribly — hourly. She was
such a delightful companion. But though I've loved
her deeply, and she has loved me — after a fashion —
I've never rested in her love. I've always known her
to be a coquette — a flaming, intellectual coquette —
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 9
whose very attractions make it impossible for her to
be constant. Good God, Brooker ! are any of us
constant to anybody, or to anything, or to ourselves
— even our worst selves ? Don't let me maunder any
more about her. She isn't the matter with me — or if
she is, she's not ail the matter wiili mc. I go deeper
than that.
Brooker. What is the matter with you?
Dr. C. I tell you I've caught the disease of our
time, of our society, of our civilisation.
Brooker. What's that?
Dr. C. Middle age. Disillusionment. My youth's
gon?. My beliefs are gone. I enjoy nothing. I
believe in nothing.
Brooker. There's no cure for lost youth, I'm
afraid. But for lost belief
Dr. C. The cure for that is to turn churchwarden
and go round with the plate on Sundays, I suppose.
Brooker. Don't sneer at us poor fools who do
still believe in something.
Dr. C. Sneer at you ! I envy you. Belief !
That's the placebo I want. That would cure me.
Brooker. Don't you believe in your work ?
Dr. C. My work means nothing to me. Success
means nothing to me. I cure people with a grin and
a sneer. I keep on asking myself, "To what end?
To what end ? ''
Brooker. Come and dress, let's get an early
dinner and go to a music hall.
lo THE PIIYSICIAX act i
Dr, C. That's your placebo, is it ?
Brooker. Surely, Carey, you must know there's
nothing the matter with you.
Dr. C. Don't I tell you there's nothing the matter
with me, and that I can endure it no longer. Brooker,
my practice is a very valuable one. I want you to
take it up and carry it on.
Brooker. You're not in earnest ?
Dr. C. Indeed I am. We'll talk it over at dinner.
Don't argue with me, I've made up my mind.
Brooker. And you — what will you do ?
Dr. C. I don't know.
Brooker. Where will you go ?
Dr. C. I don't know.
Brooker. Surely you have some plan ?
Dr. C. None in this world, except to walk out of
that door and let it clang for ever on my present self.
I want a new impulse, a new outlook on life — no,
I want a new life itself. I may go to India. I'm
interested in these cholera experiments.
Brooker. To what end ?
Dr. C. Ah, to what end? To save life. To
what end ? I can't tell you. But I've still got the
healing instinct strong within me in spite of what I've
told you ; if any poor devil suffering from some
mortal disease were to come in at that door and ask
me to help him, I should fling myself heart and soul
into his case and fight Uke a tiger to pull him through.
And all the time my grinning, sneering, second self
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN ii
would be standing beside me and asking me "To
what end? To what end?" {IVit/i a gesture of
weariness and despair.) Let me get out of this,
Brooker. Come in as soon as you can and set me
free.
£titer ViccARS at back, with lady's visiting card on
tray, tvhich lie brings to Dr. Carey, Dr. Carey
takes card, shozvs great delight.
Viccars. Lady is waiting in the next room, sir.
{Going off at back.)
Dr. C. {in a loiv tone to Brooker, sho-wing great
feeltng). It's she. She has come back to me !
Brooker. I've a letter or two to write. Perhaps
Viccars will show me to my room.
YicCAKS {at door at back). This way, sir. {Exit.)
Dr. C. {7C'ith great feeling). I was wrong, Brooker.
I care for her more than I know. It's her absence
that has ailed me. I shall be well now.
(Brooker wrings Carey's hand with great
cordiality, and exit at back. Dr.
Carey goes to door l., opens it.)
Dr. C. Val !
Enter door at back Lady Valerie Camville, a hand-
sottie wojnan about thirty-three ; bright red hair,
large brown eyes with a merry twijikle ; high fore-
head; rather large mouth with great expression ; a
12 THE rilVSICIAX ACT I
face with beauty, mteUectuality, and humour, with-
out spirituality. Dr. Carey goes to her with the
utmost tenderness and respect, kisses her hand softly
two or three times, then holds it tenderly, looking
at her with great affection.
Dr. C. You got my letters .?
Lady V. Yes. ( Withdraws her hand.) You
begged me at least to see you and sqy "Good-bye."
Your last letter was so piteous, I couldn't help coming.
{Holding out hand in the frankest way.) Good-bye.
Dr. C. {cut to the quick). You've not come to
say that ? {Doesn't take her hand.)
Lady V. Indeed I have. If you remember we
made a compact at the beginning of our friend-
ship
Dr. C. Our friendship ! We were friends, were
we not ?
Lady V, We were very good friends indeed, and
we very sensibly agreed that the moment we began to
feel the least little bit tired of each other, the moment
boredom supervened, we would have the courage to
own the truth and — part.
{Again offering hand, -which he doesn't take.)
Dr. C. {piteously). Are you tired of me, Val ?
Lady V. Not at the present moment. Altogether,
I think you bear the test of constant companionship
better than most men would. {Smiling at him. ) Still,
my dear Lewin, don't let us blink the horrible fact
ACT 1 THE PHYSICIAN 13
that boredom has supervened. That Sunday at
Henley last year !
Dr. C. Oh, a wet English Sunday !
Lady V. No amount of British climate or British
Sunday can excuse a man for treating a woman as if
she had been married to him for a dozen years !
Besides, boredom has supervened on other occasions.
Dr. C. {Jea/ous/y). Val — you've not — you've not
met /any one else?
Lady V. Ah ! you shouldn't ask me that !
Dr. C. Why not ?
Lady V. Because you know I should tell the
biggest of big fibs, rather than give you pain.
Dr. C. Then you have ?
Lady V. No. I've only thought matters over.
{Again offering hand. ^ Good-bye.
Dr. C. I can't say it. What reason is there for
us to part ?
Lady V. Our friendship must end some day and
somehow. Think. How would you wish it to end ?
In a yawn? In a squabble? In a scandal?
Dr. C. I should wish it to end in — death.
Lady V. Would you ? Now that's the very last
way in which I should wish it to end. At least, if it's
my death you mean.
Dr. C. Why not the scandal ?
Lady V. {looks at him questiotiingly). You'd be
obliged to marry me !
Dr. C. Obliged ? Dare you face it ?
14 THE PHYSICIAN act i
Lady V. Gracious, no ! To sink into social ex-
tinction in a bog of newspaper mud ! No, trust me,
this is our fine artistic moment for bidding each other
adieu. We part with the pleasantest memories of the
past, with the best wishes for the future, and with just
the merest shade of regret {looks at him roguishly,
sighs) ; at least, on my side.
Dr. C. On your side there will be the merest shade
of regret. On my side there will be despair.
Lady V. And so there should be ! Anything less
than despair for some months, or at least weeks,
would be uncomplimentary to me.
Dr. C. {coming to her passionately). Val, don't tor-
ture me ! I can't let you go. {About to clasp her.)
Lady V. {shaking her head, warning him off with
her forejitiger). I leave for Scotland to-night.
Dr. C. Scotland ! What for ?
Lady V. To escape boredom. I see it still
hovering, ready to close impenetrably round us the
moment we take up our old lives.
Dr. C. Why should, we take up our old lives ?
Val, take up a new life with me from to-day — from
this moment.
Lady V. New life ! How ? Where ?
Dr. C. Anywhere ! I'm leaving London, giving
up my practice
Lady V. My dear Lewin, what strange freak is
this?
Dr. C. It's no freak. If I stay in London I shall
ACT 1 THE PHYSICIAN 15
come to some miserable end. I shall either go mad,
or commit suicide, or become a fashionable London
physician. I don't want to do either. I've got thirty
good years of life in front of me.
Lady V. And how do you propose to spend
them?
Dr. C. In work. In duty.
Lady V. Duty ? H'm ! That's some article for
the consumption of the g reat middle classes, isn't it ?
Like the things they get it Whiteley's and the Stores.
I'm sure it isn't for the elect — for you and me. What
work ? What duty ?
Dr. C. I should Uke to go to India and thor-
oughly work out these cholera experiments.
Lady V. And to boredom add ghastliness. I
don't want to go microbe-hunting in India. I like
big game.
Dr. C. Very well. We'll travel, go where you
please, do what you please. Only (very piteously)
don't leave me, Val. These last few weeks since
you've been away I've had a horrible time. I couldn't
tell what ailed me. When I knew that you had come
back, my heart began to beat again. My hand
trembled when I took your card just now, and when
you came into the room, didn't you see, I could
scarcely speak for joy ?
Lady V. (a little touched). My poor Lewin, I
didn't know you cared so much for me.
Dr. C. I didn't know it myself till I had lost you.
i6 THE PHYSICIAN act i
Val, come back to me. I cling to you ! You are all
I have in the world ! Take me, do what you please
with me ! Make me at least believe in you ! What
is it you want ? Is it love ? I'll give you all I have
to the last drain of my heart. Is it marriage ? I'll
face the disgrace with you, shelter you from it so far
as I can. Val, I offer you riiy heart and my name
with all the respect and worship of my nature. {Long
pause.) What do you say ? ,
{She has listened with great attefition and is a
little moved by his passionate pleading,
stands as if undecided, then looks at him
pityingly, sighs, speaks in a firm matter-
of-fact, but not unkind tofie.)
Lady V. I'm very sorry. But it must be adieu —
and now.
Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val.
Lady V. I must be in Scotland to-morrow morn-
ing, and I must catch the train.
Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val.
Lady V. What a heavenly attitude of melancholy
you have !
Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val.
Lady V. Alas, poor dear ! I must ! {Blows him
a kiss.) Good-bye. {Exit l.)
{She closes the door after her. He stands,
looks after her, his hands tightly clasped
in front of him ; his features hardefiing,
his eyes fixed, his whole attitude one of
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 17
great mental anguish changing into de-
spair. A iong pause. Viccars slowly
and tijnidly opens door at back and
looks in. )
Viccars. Are you engaged, sir ?
Dr. C. {relaxing his strained attitude with an effort,
speaking in an intensely calm tone). No. What is it ?
Viccars {enters, brings in card on salver). A
young lady says she appointed to meet her father here
at half-past five. He hasn't come, and she wishes to
know if you could see her for a few minutes.
Dr. C. Show her in.
(Viccars goes, leaves door open. Dr. Carey
zvalks listlessly across the room. Re-
enter Viccars, at back, showing in
Edana Hinde, a bright, eager girl, not
quite twenty, prettily dressed, but a little
cou7itrified. )
Viccars. Miss Hinde. {Exit Viccars.)
Edana. I'm so sorry to trouble you. My father
arranged to meet me here, but he has gone to some
old bookshops, and I daresay he has forgotten all
about me.
Dr. C. Will you be seated? {She sits.) What
can I do for you ?
Edana. I hardly know how to tell you. You
won't think it very strange of me — I wanted to ask
you about somebody else {A pause.)
Dr. C. Go on.
l8 THE PHYSICIAN ACT i
Edana {a little embarrassed). His life is so valu-
able. You must have heard his name — Mr. Walter
Amphiel.
Dr. C. Amphiel ? Amphiel ? Oh yes, the man
who is making all this stir about the temperance
question.
Edana. He is giving his life to it.
Dr. C. He is a friend of yours ?
Edana. Yes. {Fai/se.) I am to be his wife.
Dr. C. And you wish ?
Edana. He gives himself to the work night and
day. He is killing himself for others.
Dr. C. Then he is unjust to himself and to
you.
Edana. Oh, it doesn't matter for me. But I
want his life to be spared.
Dr. C. And you wish me to see him and persuade
him to give it up ?
Edana. Oh no, he wouldn't give up the work !
And I wouldn't have him ! We have both put our
hands to the plough. And {very gloivingly) I wish
nothing better for either of us than to die for our
cause if need were. {He is looking at her with interest
and a little astonishment}^ I beg pardon, you don't
understand me.
Dr. C. I don't quite understand what you wish
me to do.
Edana. I want you to see him and advise him
how to take care of his health.
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 19
Dr. C. Certainly. Send him to me to-morrow
morning.
Edana. He won't come. He has a great dislike
to seeing doctors, and when I beg him he only smiles
at me, and says he shall live long enough. But I can
see such a change in him the last few months. He
grows paler and thinner, and more careworn. Couldn't
you come to him ?
I?R. C. Where?
Edana. We live at Fontleas, near Buxenham.
Dr. C. Is he there now ?
Edaxa. No. He is passing though London
to-day on his way to the Temperance Congress at
Soulhampton to-morrow. Couldn't you come to
Fontleas, unknown to him, and stay a day or two
and watch him, and find out all about him, and tell
me what to do ?
Dr. C. It would be very unusual.
Edana. Would it be impossible ?
Dr. C. You are very much concerned for him.
Edana. Oh, I can't tell you how much ! He is
so good, and gentle, and unselfish ! He came into a
large fortune last year. He is giving it all away to
the cause. Isn't it great of him to give up everything
for others ?
Dr. C. What made you come to me ?
Edana, We've been reading about your journey
to Eg>'pt and how you saved the Pasha's life. Yours
must be splendid work, too ! I've often thought that
20 THE PHYSICIAN act i
if I were a man I should like to be a doctor. {She
sees Dr. Carey is ivatchitig her, stops suddenly, con-
fused.) I beg your pardon. Could you come to
Fontleas ?
Dr. C. Certainly I could come. I come to
Buxenham occasionally. I send some of my patients
there for the waters. By the way, isn't there a well
or a spring at Fontleas ?
Edana. Yes, a holy well. You've heard of
it?
Dr. C. I think I have. Saint — Saint
Edana. Saint Edana's well. It had great healing
properties in the middle ages. Pilgrims used to come
there from all parts, and thousands were cured by
drinking its waters.
Dr. C. In the middle ages. And now they have
come to me.
Edana. Oh, we've had some cures in this century.
Dr. C. Indeed.
Edana. My father is Vicar of Fontleas, and he's
writing a life of Saint Edana.
Dr. C. Saint Edana ! It's an uncommon name.
Edana. I was named after her.
Dr. C. Saint Edana ! It's a pretty name,
{A pause.)
Edana (rising). I'm taking up your valuable
time
Dr. C. When will Mr. Amphiel be at Fontleas ?
Edana. He lives there. But he's often away for
ACT I
THE PHYSICIAN 21
weeks together on temperance work. I could let you
know. Will you come and see him ?
Dr. C. If there is anything I can do
Edana. Then you will come ! How kind of you !
But I'm sure when you know him you'll think his life
worth all your care.
Dr. C. If he is dear to you I'm sure it must be.
E7iter VicCARS at back, showing in the Reverend
'Peregrine Hinde, a very quaint old country
clergyman, rather over sixty, with very bright eyes,
pleasant features, indicatijig a mixture of shrewd-
ness and simplicity. He has a habit of humming
.\ little snatches of sacred tunes to himself, and punctu-
ates nearly every sentence with a hearty little chuckle
at his own S7nall wit. He carries two or three
large old volu?nes tender his arm.
Viccars {announcing). Mr. Hinde.
{Exit Viccars.)
Rev. p. {co7nes up to Dr. Carey, humming a little
snatch, leaves off abruptly). Dr. Carey? (Dr. Carey
bows) I've been with the saints all the afternoon.
( Tappifig the books imder his arm. ) And in their society
I forgot all about you. I hope you'll excuse me.
Dr. C. Certainly. From the little I know of
the saints I'm sure they must be far more agreeable
company than I am.
Rev. p. Not more agreeable, but say more profit-
able— for a man of my age. You see, I may have to
22 THE PHYSICIAN act i
meet them in a few years, and I shouldn't like not
to feel quite at home amongst them. {Chuckles and
hums.) Now, Edana, what is to be done about
Walter?
Edana. Dr. Carey has promised to come to
Fontleas to see him.
Rev. p. The poor boy is working himself to death
in the cause of temperance. Dear me, how very in-
temperate all these good temperance /oiks are, aren't
they ? Still, it's a good cause — a sacred cause. I
used to take my glass of wine and I used to enjoy it.
Walter has persuaded me to give it up. I miss it
{regretfully), still it's a good cause — a sacred cause.
And may I ask what your fee will be for coming to
Fontleas, Dr. Carey ?
Dr. C. Oh, don't trouble about that, Mr Hinde.
Rev. p. Oh, but I must. I'm not rich. My stipend
for doctoring men's souls is two hundred and forty
pounds per annum, or thirteen shillings a day. I
hope you don't consider doctoring men's bodies is
worth more than {a little hum) say ten times as much
as doctoring their souls ?
Dr. C. That all depends upon the doctor. I'll
come to Fontleas and see Mr. Amphiel. But we
won't say anything about the fee till I've done my
work. Is there any place at Fontleas where I can stay?
Rev. p. "We can offer you the hospitality of the
Vicarage.
Dr. C. You're very kind, but I'm going to take
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 23
a long rest from my practice, and I might possibly stay
some considerable time. Is there a comfortable inn ?
Rev. p. I'm afraid there isn't. We are all such
staunch temperance folks at Fontleas that we feel
bound to make people who drink as uncomfortable
as we can, don't we, Edana? {Chuckles^
Edana. There's Granny Barton's. She has one
or two very large comfortable rooms.
Dr. C. What is her address ?
Edana. The Abbot's Kitchen, Fontleas.
Dr. C. The Abbot's Kitchen ?
Rev. p. It was the Abbot's Kitchen, but there
beijig no further use for abbots, and no further use
for good living in Fontleas, it was turned into a
farmhouse. And ' now there being no further use in
England for farms and farmhouses, the poor old
creature has sold her land and lets her rooms to
visitors from Buxenham.
Edana. She's a dear old soul.
Rev. p. And she so far sustains the traditions of
the spot that she can cook a very good dinner.
Dr. C. {making a 7iote). The Abbot's Kitchen.
Very well. I'll come to Fontleas as soon as I can
get away from London.
{The Rev. Peregrine Hinde takes up his
books, Edana picks up the book which
Amphiel has left, glances at the title,
shoivs interest, looks at it duritig the
following conversation.^
24 THE PHYSICIAN act i
Dr. C. {touching the books which the Rev. Pere-
grine HiNDE is taking up). Your lore is very different
from mine.
Rev. p. Yes, so much more interesting.
Dr. C. Why ?
Rev, p. Don't you think men's souls are more
interesting than their bodies ?
Dr. C. I never saw a man's soul.
Rev. p. I never saw a mother's love, but I'm sure
it's about the realest thing on this sid€ of the grave.
Edana i^ivho has been looking at tJie book). How
very curious !
Dr. C. What ?
Edana. This book on Alcoholic Mania.
Dr. C. Yes, it's interesting. But the author
rides his theory that drunkenness is a disease a little
too hard. {Edana continues reading.) Miss Hinde
tells me you are writing a life of Saint Edana.
Rev. p. Yes, it's very puzzling. One history
recounts that she went to Cornwall and died there at
the age of twenty, the most glorious visions being
vouchsafed to all around her as her spirit passed away.
Dr. C. Ah ! I've been to Cornwall
Rev. p. But you saw no visions ? No, it's a rare
faculty, and it seems to be growing rarer. We who
have it are highly favoured. {Chuckles and hums.)
Another account says that as Saint Edana was cross-
ing to Ireland at the age of fifty, the ship was over-
taken in a storm. And while the mariners cursed
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 25
and blasphemed, she prayed that her Hfe alone might
be taken and all the others spared to repent. And
so it was.
Dr. C. And another history recounts ?
Rev. p. That she died full of good works at the
age of ninety on the spot where my vicarage now stands.
Dr. C. And which history do you believe ?
Rev. p. All three. {Hums and chuckles.) You
see, so many people nowadays believe in nothing at
all. It does no harm to have a few old-fashioned folks
like myself, who believe a great deal too much,
believe everything that's told them — so long as it's
beautiful and helpful ! Good-bye, Dr. Carey. Come,
Edana !
{Exit at back, humming and chuckling, his
books under his ar^n.)
Edana {puts down book). Then we shall see you
at Fontleas ?
Dr. C. In about a week. {Shaking hands.)
Edana. Thank you ! Thank you ! Oh, if you
can give him health and strength
{Ifer eyes fill with tears. Exit at back
hurriedly. Dr. Carey statids looking
after her for some moments as if deeply
interested ; comes down stage.)
Brooker enters at the open door.
Dr. C. Brooker, make haste and come into my
practice. I want to get away.
26 THE PHYSICIAN act i
Brooker. Where?
Dr. C. Did you see that girl who went out?
Her lover is ill— dying, she says. She wants me to
come and see him.
Brooker. And you're going ?
Dr. C. Why not? Why not there as well as
anywhere? Why not that as well as anything else?
Brooker. You mean to give up this splendid
practice, your position, your career—" —
Dr. C. I tell you I can't stay here, especially
after to-day. Besides, this man Amphiel has a great
mission.
Brooker. Mission ?
Dr. C. He's this Walter Amphiel, the man who
is organising the temperance movement.
Brooker. And do you agree with that kind of
fanaticism ?
Dr. C. Is it fanaticism ? The girl's face glowed
like a live coal when she spoke of her cause and her
lover. How she loves the fellow ! Brooker, it's
better to be a fanatic than a cynic.
Brooker. It's better still to be neither. It's
better to be a good common-sense citizen and pay
your rates and taxes.
Dr. C. No, it isn't. Good common-sense citizens
when they die — well, they think they go to heaven or
hell, but they only go to limbo — and I should like to
go to heaven or hell; the latter for preference, I
think, because it's only when we suffer, as I'm
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 27
suffering now, that we can make sure that we're ahve.
By the way, did you take down that book of Fuller's
on Alcoholic Mania? {Foiniing to book on table.)
Brooker. No, I found a young fellow here
reading it. I thought I remembered his face — in
fact, I'm sure I did. He came to me some three or
four years ago. He puzzled me. I fancied at the
time,, from a hint that he dropped, that he'd been
drinking heavily.
Re-enter Viccars at back.
YiccARS. A gentleman to consult you, sir. He
won^ give his name.
Dr. C. Show him in. {Exit YiccxRS at back.)
Brooker {taking out watch). It's almost time to
dress for dinner. You said nothing more about
Dr. C. She only came to say "good-bye." She
has said it. {A very bitter /augh.) Brooker, I'll come
with you to a music hall to-night.
Re-enter Viccars, l., showing in Walter Amphiel,
who meets Brooker as he is going out. Amphiel
again shnvs slight recognition., and avoids looking
at Brooker. Brooker bows slightly.)
{Exit Brooker and Viccars at back.)
Amphiel. Dr. Carey, I've come on a curious
errand.
(Dr. Carey points to a chair, looks rather
28 THE PHYSICIAN act i
fixedly at Amphiel, who re?nains stand-
ing with a somewhat embarrassed^ shifty
manner. Dr. Carey agaiti points to
chair. Amphiel sits. Dr. Carey sits^
Dr. C. What can I do for you ?
Amphiel. Nothing for myself. I'm in excellent
health, as you can see. {With a smile.)
Dr. C. Go on.
Amphiel. I've come to ask youf advice about a
very dear friend of mine — almost my brother. I've
been staying with him lately, and to my horror I
discovered that he gives way to periodical fits of
drunkenness. I tried to persuade him to come to
you, but he was ashamed. I want you to advise me
about him.
Dr. C. I couldn't advise you without seeing
him. I don't know his constitution or how far it
is impaired.
Amphiel. Oh, I don't think there is any serious
damage done. And I want you to give me some
general rules for his guidance. Drunkenness is really
a disease, isn't it ?
Dr. C. All vice is disease. All evil habits are
the exact expression of some physical derangement.
An evil thought signifies that the brain is to that
extent disordered, the same as an attack of indiges-
tion signifies that the stomach is to that extent dis-
ordered.
Amphiel. But we can't help our thoughts ! My
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 29
friend can't help these fits of drunkenness. I'm sure
he can't ! Surely you can advise me what he ought
to do?
Dr. C. How often do these outbreaks occur ?
Amphiel. Sometimes every month or two — some-
times he manages to control himself for three or four
months. Then suddenly he tells me he has this
irresistible craving for drink — it's so overwhelming that
he'd' lie,- or steal, or murder almost to get it. Then
he goes away, he tells me, hides from his friends, and
gives way to drink and — other dissipation — at least,
so I gathered. When the fit is over he spends a few
awful days in anguish and remorse, and then, when
he is sufficiently recovered, he goes back to his home.
Dr. C. And nobody suspects him ?
Amphiel. Nobody. Except myself. And I only
found it out by the merest accident.
Dr. C. What is his age ?
Amphiel {slight hesitation). Thirty-one.
Dr. C. How long has he been subject to these
outbreaks ?
Amphiel. About five or six years.
Dr. C. Did they come on gradually from con-
stant and little drinking? Or did they begin after
some one definite cause, such as an illness, a shock,
a bereavement, or an accident? How did they
originate ?
Amphiel (after a longish pause). He told me all.
He ruined a girl near to his home. She brought his
30 THE PHYSICIAN act i
child to her father and then left her home again,
went from worse to worse, and drifted away nobody
knows where. Her mother died from the shame and
grief and my friend drank to drown his remorse. Ever
since then, at intervals, he has had these outbreaks.
Dr. C. What is his occupation ?
Amphiel {hesitates). He — he
Dr. C. {rising). You had better send your friend
to some good physician.
Amphiel {rising). But can't you tell me what to
do with him ? \\'ould a voyage to India benefit him ?
Dr. C. I couldn't say. Send him to some good
physician. What is he afraid of? A physician knows
nothing of shame. Any one part of this wonderful
machine that gets out of order is just the same as
another to him. His only care is to heal. Come,
now {with great kindness and inviting Amphiel's
confidence), if it were yourself, I'm sure you wouldn't
hesitate to trust me?
(Amphiel responds with a 7novei7ient towards
Dr. Carey as if about to give Dr.
Carey all his confidence, then suddetily
checks himself and shows some embar-
rassment.)
Amphiel. My friend is in a position of great
responsibility. I mustn't betray him without first
consulting him. {Takes out purse.) The fee?
Dr. C. There is no fee.
Amphiel. But I
ACT I THE PHYSICIAN 31
Dr. C. There is no fee till I have advised your
friend. Good-day, Mr. — I didn't catch your name
Amphiel. Mr. — a — Williams.
Dr. C. Mr.— a— Williams. {Rings bell.)
Amphiel {goings turns). It is a disease, isn't it ?
I may tell him that ? He can't help these outbreaks ?
Dr. C. {dryly, coldly, a little grimly). Certainly it
is a disease. But don't let your friend lay the
flattering unction to his soul that he can't help it, for
that means his ruin. It is a disease, and the worse
he has it the more he must help it. Has he a wife ?
Amphiel. No. But he's engaged to the dearest,
most innocent girl — that's the madness of it for him.
Dr. C. It may one day be the madness of it for
her. Won't the thought of her save him ?
Amphiel. It has kept him from the worst — at
times.
Dr. C. {very significantly). Let it keep him from
the worst — always. ( Viccars appears at door at back. )
The door, Viccars.
{Exit Viccars. Aisiphiel goes out slotvly,
irresolutely, troubled ; looks back at Dk.
Carey as he goes off. Doctor statids
looking after him.)
Rather sloiv Curtain.
{Three months pass between Acts I. and II.)
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ACT II
^CENE — St, Edana's Well and Church at
FONTLEAS
The churchyard wall, an irregular crumbling mass of
Tpeather beaten stone and brick, runs across the stage
diagonally, from down stage R. to up stage L. A
large carved slab of stone in the wall forms the back
of the well, ivhich is in the centre of the stage ; the
water running from the slab forms a pool which is
surrounded by a low thick wall of crumbling masonry
about ttvo feet high and very thick. A weeping
willow springs from the pool and hangs over the
well. On the slab is carved the ifiscription in letters
which are worn and scarcely decipherable, " Whoso-
ever drinketh of this water shall thirst again, but
whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give
him shall never thirst. " There is a wicket gate in
the wall at back just to r. of well, and another
wicket gate at extreme corner L., both of these giving
glimpses of landscape in evening light. A few steps
lead up to the wicket gate r. Down stage r. the
D
34 THE PHYSICIAN act n
trunk of an old elm tree with a seat running round
it. On the L. of the stage going up to the corner
wicket gate is the Church of St. Edana, a very
simple Early English l>uildi?ig with a low roof and
covered with ivy. In the church a small door, and
a small window, formerly the lepers' window, such
as is seen in many old churches.
Time : a summer Sunday evening.
Discover Dr. Carey and Edana seated on the well.
Ed ANA is in a dress of soft white muslin.
Dr. C. And it was at this well that Saint Edana
worked her most wonderful cures. What diseases
did she treat ?
Edana. All kinds of diseases.
Dr. C. Like a patent medicine.
Edan.\. Yes — and like Nature.
Dr. C. Nature's a sad bungler.
Edana. No ! No !
Dr. C. Yes ! Yes ! She's terribly careless and
terribly cruel.
Edana. No ! No ! I won't have you slander
your mother.
Dr. C. Tell me some more about Saint Edana.
Edana. She is said to have cured many lepers.
You see that little round window? That was the
lepers' window in the old time. They weren't allowed
to mix with the congregation, and so they used to
come there and join in the services from outside.
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 35
Dr. C. The lepers' window ! That was my
window.
Edana. Yes, I saw you looking through it this
morning. Are you coming to church this evening ?
Dr. C. No. I feel my right place is outside —
with the lepers.
Edana. You seem to believe in nothing.
Dr. C. That's my disease.
EfDANA. But surely — surely you believe in your
work. {He shakes his head and smiles.) Then why
have you taken so much trouble with all my poor
people ?
Dr. C. Mere force of habit. I've got into the
way 'of curing people just as some folks get into the
way of giving coppers to beggars. It relieves our
feelings, but it's a very bad habit.
Edana. A bad habit to give life ? A bad habit
to relieve pain ? Oh, I won't have you speak like
this. I'm sure life is good. It's good to have it !
It's good to give it ! It is ! It is ! I don't under
stand you.
Dr. C. How is that ?
Edana. You're so kind and gentle to everybody,
and so sad and bitter against everything. I've often
thought I'd ask you to tell me your history. You've
had some great sorrow? {She looks at him very
sympathetically — he assents.) Ah! {She makes a
sympathetic gesture towards him., looks at him with real
sympathy.) But you'll get over it — you'll conquer it.
36 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
Dr. C. I have conquered it. But it has left me
hopeless. My youth lies all behind me. I'm alone
in the world. I'm like a traveller who turns in to
rest at an inn for an hour or two — when I leave you
and go out to take up my journey again, I see thirty
years of life in front of me. The shadow lies upon
all of them.
Ed.\na. Oh, I'm so sorry for you ! No, I'm not !
You're young yet ! It's a shame — it's a shame to
despair! with all your gifts ! and just^n the prime of life.
Dr. C. Go on ! Go on !
Edan.'V. Oh, if I could show you your future as I
see it ! Can't you see how splendid it might be ?
You have the knowledge and the skill ! You are
loved and believed in ! You've only to put your hand
to it and to do it.
Dr. C. Go on ! Go on !
Edana. Oh, I wish I had your power ! I wish I
could make people well and glad ! I wish I could
give back a dying wife to her husband, or a dying
child to its mother. Oh, I must make you do it. Do
you hear? You must go back to London and take
up your work ! You mustn't waste your time here !
You must go !
Dr. C. Don't send me away — at least, not yet.
Let me stay in my half-way house for a little while
longer, and then perhaps by and by I may feel stronger
to go on my journey. Besides, you forget, I came to
Fontleas for a purpose.
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 37
Edana. To cure Mr. Amphiel — I can't think why
he stays away so long.
Dr. C. You've not heard from him lately ?
Edana. Not for the last fortnight.
Dr. C. And then he was at Genoa ?
Edana. Yes, and wrote he should most likely take
the first boat back. I wish he had stayed at Fontleas
to see you.
Dr. C. He left the very day before I came,
didn't he ?
Edana. Yes. My father happened to say you
were coming and that started him away. I told you
he dislikes to see doctors.
Dr. C. But he says the long voyage has restored
him ?
Edana {shakes her head). He says so. He will
never own to being ill. But I fear — oh, my instinct
tells me he is not better — that he never will be better.
Dr. C. Why do you fear that ?
Edana. I don't know. For the last two years he
has been growing gradually worse — I'm sure of it — I
can't shut my eyes to it. If he should die !
Dr. C. You love him very much ?
{She looks at him. He turns away and shows pain.)
Edana. You will stay at Fontleas, won't you, till
you've cured him ? I have such faith in you.
Dr. C. Have you ?
Edana. I've watched you with my poor people.
I don't know what it is — you are so different from
38 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
most doctors. Tell me — there is something strange
about you — something almost miraculous ?
Dr. C. {shakes his head, smiles). No. Nothing
more miraculous than the everyday perpetual miracle
of the power of the mind, will, soul, spirit — call it
what you like — over the body. We none of us under-
stand it. It's the very mystery of life itself And
when a case interests me I can't leave it. I feel ready
to give part of my own life to my parent.
Edana. Suppose Mr. Amphiel's case interested you ?
Dr. C. Then I would give up myself entirely to
him if
Edana. If what ?
Dr. C. If in return you would heal me.
Edana. What do you mean ?
Dr. C. I've gone astray. I've lost my clue.
When I came here three months ago I had no faith,
no hope, no wish to live. The night before I left
town I had almost decided to end it.
Edana. Ah, no
Dr. C. Yes. It was the thought of you that kept
me from it, the thought that I might be of some little
use and help to you. Since I've been here with you
I have gradually found my faith returning to me. I
begin to believe again. Ah ! it's true, this power
that one soul has over another. Don't turn away
from me ! Heal me !
Edana. Heal you ! I heal you, the great London
physician ! What can I heal you of?
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 39
Dr. C. My blindness ! my darkness ! You have
the wisdom of life for me. You can give me back
my youth, my faith. You can make me believe in
myself, in my work — you can put together for me all
the broken pieces of this puzzle of a world. Oh ! it's
wise to believe ! It's wise to love ! Heal me !
{She goes and sits on the well.)
Edana. The country people say that if you look
long enough into the well you can see Saint Edana's
image in the waters.
Dr. C. {goes and looks doian). I can see her ! She
is in white ! I believe in her powers. (Edana draws
book.) Give me one cup of water from her well.
(Edana looks at him, then goes and fills the
stone cup and gives it to him. Dr.
Carey takes the cup ajid drinks.)
As he is drinking very reverently. Lady Valerie, very
handsomely dressed, enters at the wicket gate R.
afid comes down.
Lady V. How d'ye do ?
Dr. C. How d'ye do ? {Bowing.)
Lady V. I've interrupted a tete-a-tete. I'm so
sorry. {Glancing at Edana.) Perhaps your friend
will forgive me.
Dr. C. {introducing). Miss Hinde — Lady Valerie
Camville.
Lady V. {shaking hands with Edana). How do
40 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
you do? We've been terribly concerned in town
about Dr. Carey. We lost him suddenly, and the
wildest rumours have been afloat. So, as I was stay-
ing at Buxenham, I thought I'd drive over and learn
the truth. {To Dr. Carey, glanchig at Edana.) I've
brought you a message from a friend of yours.
Edana, It's a little chilly, I'll step over to the
Vicarage and get my shawl. {Exit Edana, r.)
Lady V. {looking after her). Lewin, I think she's
charming.
Dr. C. I scarcely expected to see you in Font-
leas.
Lady V. Evidently not. Or I'm sure you wouldn't
have been so ungallant as to choose the very moment
of my arrival for making love to another woman.
Dr. C. You are mistaken. I was not making
love to Miss Hinde.
Lady V. Oh, my dear Lewin, I heard you as I
came along; no woman who has been really loved
ever mistakes that accent. You forget that you have
piped that same tune to me.
Dr. C. No, not that tune.
Lady V. Yes, that same tune. It's always the
same, like a bullfinch's ditty. There are only three
notes in it — but oh, what music !
Dr. C. Miss Hinde is engaged to Mr. Walter
Amphiel, and is devotedly attached to him.
Lady V. Is she ? Then why pipe to her if she
won't dance ? Why waste your music on her when I
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 41
should be rather glad to hear a note or two of the
old tune ?
Dr. C. What has brought you to Fontleas ?
Lady V. I've been bored. I've had a horrible
whiff of middle-age the last few weeks.
Dr. C. You ! Impossible !
Lady V. I smell autumn — I scent it from afar.
I ask myself how many years shall I have a man for
m/ willing, devoted slave ? How many more years
shall I be able by putting on my winningest airs and
graces to extract some sort of homage from him ?
How many more years shall I have to mope, and
wither, and remember, and attend church regularly?
Oh, my God ! Lewin, it never can be worth while for
a woman to live one moment after she has ceased to
be loved. {He laughs a Utile, bitter, atnused laugh ;
she breaks out rather fiercely^ And you men have the
laugh of us ! Age doesn't wither you or stale your
insolent, victorious, self-satisfied, smirking, common-
place durability ! Oh, you brutes, I hate you all,
because you're warranted to wash and wear for fifty
years ! {He laughs again.) Don't laugh at me ! I'm
nearly mad ! Lewin, I've got another good ten years
before me to be loved in, haven't I ? At least five.
Tell me the truth — no, don't — give me what love you
have to give while I'm attractive and worth it, and
then — the moment I'm off colour — wht — a flash of
lightning or an opium pill and have done with me !
Dr. C. And only three months ago you refused
42 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
the best love I had to offer. Why did you do it?
You had met somebody else ?
Lady V, Don't ask me ! I was soon undeceived.
My dear Lewin, you don't know what a charming man
you are. But I do, now.
Dr. C. Now !
Lady V. And you're in love with that yard and
three-quarters of white muslin. It won't last, you
know. "
Dr. C. I'm not in love with her. (Lady Valerie
shakes her head.) At least, I may not be. I came here
jaded, disappointed, heartsick, heart-broken. I met
her — a pure, bright girl, fresh from God's hands
Lady V. Fresh from ivhere ?
Dr. C. Oh, some of you do come from there, you
know !
Lady V. Hum ! I shouldn't have thought it !
But you're a physician and you ought to know.
My dear Lewin, you don't really believe that stale
old legend.
Dr. C. What stale old legend ?
Lady V. The legend of Saint Edana: that a
woman can reform a man, change his character,
spiritualise him, etherealise him, pure-white-muslinise
him.
Dr. C. I've known an instance of it.
Lady V. Your own. But the process isn't com-
plete. You've only known her three months, and she
has always worn white muslin. You've known me six
ACT 11 THE PHYSICIAN 43
years and I have never worn white muslin, or its
accompanying inward and spiritual graces.
Dr. C. They wouldn't suit you.
Lady V. Not now perhaps. But I had a white
muslin period, when I came bright and pure and fresh
from {with an upward nod) you know where — at least
the boy who loved me thought I did. That was when
I was seventeen.
Dr. C. I can't see you in the character.
Lady V, Yet I have played it. Really, Lewin,
in your profession you ought to have some knowledge
of us and our trade secrets. Don't you know what
women are ?
Dr. C. No. I've become a very simple greenhorn
down here. Tell me, are you all alike ?
Lady V. At heart, yes. We all go through the
seven ages of women and play our trumpery little
parts — all of them as artificial and tiresome as the
French stage ingenue. In a few years Miss Hinde
will be playing this role.
Dr. C. She'll never be like you.
Lady V. No, but she'll be playing this part, and
playing it — oh, not nearly so well as I do.
Dr. C. She'll never be like you. You women
don't even know your own sex.
Lady V. No ? Perhaps not. But we get an
occasional glimmer, whereas you men are quite in the
dark. Oh, why won't you be content to know us and
take us for what we are ?
44 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
Dr. C. What are you ?
Lady V. Terrestrial-celestial amphibians. Come !
You're to come back to Buxenham and dine with me.
Dr. C. I'm sorry. I'm going to supper at the
Vicarage.
Lady V. To-morrow, then ?
Dr. C. I fear not. I'm living in the quietest
way
Lady V. I know. I've been down the lane to
see that queer old place where you live — the Abbot's
Kitchen, don't you call it ? Aren't you horribly dull ?
Dr. C. I've been in worse company than my own.
Lady V. Lewin, I'm sorry, terribly sorry that I
threw you over. I want to hear a note or two of the
old tune.
Dr. C. It's too late. {Looking off.)
Lady V. I can't bear to lose you. Sir Francis
Dumby's house is to let in Harley Street. Come
back to London and let all be as it was, except that
I shall have learned to value you.
Dr. C. It's too late. {Looking off.)
Lady V. You can see some white muslin amongst
the trees.
Dr. C. Hush ! Her father.
Enter Rev. Peregrine, r.
Rev. p. Ah, Doctor !
Dr. C. {presenting). Mr. Hinde — Lady Valerie
Camville.
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 45
Lady V. {bozas). I must be getting back to
Buxenham to dinner. Good-bye, Mr. Hinde. I
should like to come and see over your church
some day.
Rev. p. Delighted, Lady Valerie. We prefer
people who come to worship and to pray — or even to
contribute to the offertory. Still we don't mind show-
ing it to satisfy a reasonable curiosity. I'll show you
over myself. Come any day.
Lady V. I will. I'm making a long stay in
Buxenham.
Dr. C. a long stay ?
Lady V. Yes. My hearing is growing a little
defective. I mean to stay at Buxenham to recover
one or two lost notes, and you shall treat me. My
carriage is at the inn — come and see me to it. Do
you hear ? Come and see me to my carriage !
{They go off at ivicket gate R., Rev. Pere-
grine follows them 7ip, hu??i??itng, and
looks after thcf/i.)
Enter, r., James Hebbings and Louisa Pack, a pair
of country sweethearts. James has his arm very
tightly clasped round Louisa's 7vaist with a defiant
air of proprietorship.
James. Evenin', pa'son.
Rev. p. Good evening, James. You seem very
happy.
46 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
James (beamings g^SS^ing. Tightly clasping her
i-ou7id the waist. Louisa curtseys). Me and Louisa
have made up our minds to bring it off. That is as
soon as we can save up a fi' pound note to give us a
bit of a start.
Rev. p. I'm glad to hear it, James.
Louisa. Jim has been off and on for the last
eighteen months, and I thought it was time for him
to toe the mark. ^
James. Well, Loo, I have toed the mark, like a
man. Only in my judgment nobody ought to get
married under a fi' pound note. In case of accidents,
eh, pa'son ?
Rev. p. I commend your prudence, James.
And, James, don't you think it would look prettier if
you were to give your arm to Louisa ?
James (blankly). What for? I be going to be
married to her, and if I bain't to put my arm round
her waist, what be I to do ?
Rev. p. I wouldn't, James — in public.
James {takes his arm away very reluctanth>). I
don't see as there's anything unreasonable about it.
And it's allays been the way of courting in this parish.
Rev. p. It is the way of courting in a great many
parishes, still it is not a choice way of courting in any
parish. Now, allow me. {Disengaging Louisa from
James.) Observe, James, — this is how you were
courting.
{Putting his arm round Louisa as James had done.)
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 47
Louisa (gi^g^i'ng). Don't 'ee, pa'son.
Rev. p. It is not an elegant attitude, James.
Louisa. Don't 'ee, pa'son. {Giggling.)
Rev. p. It is only an object lesson, Louisa. Now,
James, when I go courting again — I'm sixty-seven
(sighs) — this is the way I shall walk with my lady-love.
Take my arm, Louisa.
Louisa. Oh, pa'son.
. (Rev. Peregrine Hinde wa/ks her up and
down a few paces, then hands her over to
James, who has stood a little nonplussed
and embarrassed.)
Rev. p. There, James ! Take her. Cherish her.
Le't her be as the loving hind and the pleasant roe,
but don't fondle her indiscriminately in public.
James {giving Louisa his arm). All same, pa'son,
this way of courting 'uU never drive out the other way.
{Taking Louisa off at gate l.)
Rev. p. It needn't, James — in private.
{Exeunt James and Louisa at gate l.)
Enter, r., John Dibley and Martha Dibley, a very
aged, infirm old couple, supporting each other.
Rev. p. Well, John, and how are you to-night,
John?
Dibley. Oh, I be 'nation wellnigh blind, thank
God ; and I ain't very clever in my insides, thank
God ; and I 'spect I be about doubled up and done
48 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
for, thank God ; but otherways there ain't much the
matter with me, thank God !
Rev. p. {to Mrs. Dibley). I'm glad to see you
at church again, Martha.
Martha. Yes, pa'son. I feel somehow as I can't
keep away from the old place.
Rev. p. That's right, Martha. It does you good ?
Martha. Oh no, pa'son ! We don't come to
church for the good as we can get out of it.
Rev. p. Then why do you *come to church,
Martha ?
Martha. You see, pa'son, when we've sot our-
selves down comfortable for the sermon and you
begin a-holding forth, I feel my old man's hand a-
creeping towards mine, and mine a-creeping towards
hisen, and I know he's a-thinking of our two boys as
lay just outside the church a few foot off, eh, John ?
John. Aye, aye !
Martha. And we sit there and we fancy as they're
back again with us, and we're all one family again.
Rev. p. It's no fancy, Martha. We shall all be
members of that family before long. And a very
large family it will be.
John. Aye, aforelong, thank God ! Come along,
old woman ! {As they creep off towards the wicket
gate L.) Come along.
{Exeunt loYm a;?^ Martha Dibley at wicket
gate L.)
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 49
Enter Edana, r., ivith Marah, a child about five.
Marah. But where's my mammy ? And where's
my father?
Edana. You have one Father — in Heaven
Marah. I've never seen Him ! Why doesn't He
come down here sometimes? I mean a real live
father like other little girls have. There's your father.
{Pointi?igto Rev. Peregrine Hinde.) Where's mine?
(Dr. Carey enters wicket gate r.)
Edana. I'll lend you my father sometimes. He's
a very nice father, indeed. You couldn't have a
better.
Marah. But where's my mammy? I think I
should like you for a mammy
Edana. Hush, dear. {Kisses her, hides her face,
looks up.) What are you thinking of, Dr. Carey?
Dr. C. The old mystery. The how and the why
of love. The how and the why of life. {She kisses
the child again and hides her head behind her.) It's
very wonderful. And the more the microscope tells
us about the how, the less we know about the why.
What's your name, my pretty one? {To Edana.)
Who is she ?
Edana. Her name is Marah.
50 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
Enter, r., Stephen Gurdon, a man about sixty, a
stern broken man, with strong features, and a settled
hopeless look upon them.
Edana. Here is her grandfather !
(Stephen Gurdon sits on seat r., nodding to
the Rev. Peregrine Hinde.)
Rev. p. Well, Stephen ?
Stephen {curtly). Pa'son. »
(Sits, looks steadily in front of him.)
Dr. C. {in a low totie to Rev. Peregrine). What's
the story?
Rev. p. He had an only daughter — she was
betrayed, poor child — ran away from home and came
back with that little one. We tried to keep her here,
and bring her back to the fold, but she ran away again
and went utterly astray — sank and disappeared. God
have mercy on her and save her yet ! The mother
broke her heart and died. He broke his heart, but
he lives on, poor man !
Stephen {seeing they are whispering). Telling
over my old tale again, pa'son? You ain't got no
call to do that.
Rev. p. But we can't help feeling sympathy with you.
Stephen. Can't you? Well, try and help it,
pa'son. I don't want your sympathy.
Rev. p. Very well, Stephen ; we'll keep it till you
do. Won't you soften your heart and come with us
to-night, Stephen? ,
ACT 11 THE PHYSICIAN 51
Stephen. No, I don't believe the stuff, and I
won't say that I do. I'd as lief be left alone, pa'son.
Rev. p. Very well, Stephen. But remember we
keep open house here. {Exit into church.)
Edana (following Rev. Peregrine Hinde). Dr.
Carey, aren't you coming to church ?
Dr. C. I promised to go and dress that poor
fellow's leg. And I forgot all about him listening to
you.
Edana. You'll come back ^?
Dr. C. Yes. And if I don't come inside, look
for me at the lepers' window.
{Pointing to the lepers^ window.)
Edana. No, you are healed now.
Dr. C. Am I ? You are my physician,
{Exit wicket gate R. Edana goes into
church. )
Stephen. Come here, Marah. Keep beside
me.
Marah {goes to him). Grandpa, what makes you
so angry always ? Can't you laugh ?
Stephen. Oh yes, my chick. {With a bitter,
contemptuous laugh.) I can laugh. {Laughs again.)
I can laugh !
{The child looks at him frightened. Amphiel
appears at the wicket gate R. ; enters
without seeing them, then catching sight
of them is about to retreat, but Marah
sees hijn.)
52 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
Marah. Look, grandpa ! Mr. Amphiel.
(Amphiel comes up to thejn. He looks some-
what dissipated and haggard. His
manner is furtive and constrained.^
Amphiel. Stephen
Stephen {looks tip and curtly ttods). Mr. Amphiel,
you're back home
Amphiel. Yes, rather unexpectedly.
Stephen. You haven't happened to meet with
Jessie in any of your travels, I suppose ?
Amphiel. No. I promised you I'd keep a good
look-out for her in all the towns where I go, and so I
will. But I've not been in England lately — I've been
to India.
Stephen. Ah !
Amphiel. But I shall be visiting a few of the
large towns on temperance work shortly, and I will
have some inquiries made. You may be sure I will
do everything I can to find her for you.
Stephen. You remember Jessie as a girl, don't
you?
Amphiel. Oh, very well — very well indeed.
Stephen. She was a handsome, strapping girl,
wasn't she? {Turning to Marah.) Do you see the
likeness ?
Amphiel. Hush ! hush ! (7J? Marah.) Marah,
run away for a moment. I want to talk to your
grandfather. {The child goes over, r.) I wish I could
find your daughter. But I fear it's not likely.
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 53
Stephen. No, and if you did, what would she be
like now ? After six years of that ! What's she doing
to-night ? Look ! {^pointing to the sunset) it's a
beautiful evening, ain't it? And this is a hell of a
world, ain't it ?
Amphiel. Oh, don't speak like that. Mr. Gurdon,
tell me, is there anything I can do to help you, to
comfort you ?
' Stephen. Yes, bring me word that she's dead, so
that I may know my own flesh and blood ain't hawking
itself about from gin-shop to gin-shop this beautiful
evening. {Got fig off wicket gate l.) Come along,
Marah. I wonder what she's like to-night ! I wonder
what she's like to-night ! {Exit wicket gate l.)
(Marah is crossing to follow him ; Amphiel,
who has stood horrified, intercepts her as
she passes him.)
Amphiel. Marah, kiss me, my dear. {Kisses her
hungrily.) Marah, when you grow up — you won't —
you won't — kiss me, dear ; promise me you'll grow up
to be a good girl ?
Stephen {voice heard off^. Come, Marah !
Marah. Hark ! Grandpa !
Amphiel. But promise me
Marah. Yes, of course. I shall always be good.
I promise you ; there ! {Kisses ki)n.)
Amphiel. My dear, my dear !
{Stroking her hair affectiotiately. She breaks
aivayfrojji him, runs off after Stephen.
54 THE PHYSICIAN act ii
Ampuiel /<?l/ows her a few steps. From
this time stage gradually grows darker.
Singing in the church. Amphiel goes
to the lepers' windotv, looks in, shows
great emotion, stretches out his hafids
with a vain, longing gesture. As the
music swells he tumbles against the church
wall, sobbing violently.)
>
{After a pause Edana re-enters from the
church behind him. She stands a mofnent
or two watching him, then comes up to
him, touches his shoulder.)
Edana. Walter ! {He turns round. ) Walter ! I
saw you through the window. You've come back ?
{He turns round startled, rises, looks dazed, bewildered.)
Walter ! What is it, dear ? What ails you ?
Amphiel. I don't know — the thought of the crowd
in church — I'm always moved by the sight of a crowd.
Don't take any notice of me. I'm better.
Edana. I'm so glad you've come back ! I've
been so anxious about you. ^Vhere have you been ?
When did you land ?
Amphiel. I've been in England some days. I
didn't tell you because I wanted so much to start the
new refuge at Plymouth. I felt it was my duty. I
only finished very late last night — too late to telegraph
you. So I came on at once.
Edana. I might have known you had been at
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 55
some good work. But I've been so anxious ! You
should have written to me ! Never mind ! You're
here ! You're here ! I can't tell you how glad I am !
{Crying a little with joy.) Now it's I who am foolish!
I'm so pleased to see you ! Let me look at you !
i^He turns away from licr.) No, let me look at you.
I want to see if you are better.
- Amphiel. Tm well enough. The voyage has done
me a world of good. (^Avoiding her scrutiny.)
Edana (very anxiously). Are you sure ? Oh, my
dearest, you look ill — you look very ill.
Amphiel. No, no. Only a little tired. That's
-all.
Edana. Dr. Carey shall see you in the morning.
Amphiel. Dr. Carey? Is he still here? Why
hasn't he gone back ?
Edana. He has given up his practice and is living
here. I've talked to him so much about you. He
has promised to take you thoroughly in hand and
look after you till you're quite well.
Amphiel. I tell you there's nothing the matter
with me. I'm quite well ! I won't see him !
Edana. Yes, yes, dearest — to please me. Say it's
only my whim, but do, do see him. Oh, my dearest,
you don't know how I care for you. My heart is like
stone when I think of you.
Amphiel. I'm not worth it. Don't trouble about
me. I'm not worth it.
Edana. Oh yes, indeed you are, and I must have
S6 THE PHYSICIAN act u
you well. Oh, I've so much to tell you. But tell me
about yourself first.
Amphiel. Edana, since I've been in India I've
formed a great plan.
Edana. Yes, dear, tell me.
Amphiel. It depends on you whether I carry it
out or not.
Edana. If it depends on me you know it is done
— if it is anything within my power. %
Amphiel. Dare you give up everything for the
cause, and for me?
Edana. Try me and see.
Amphiel. You know, dear, that at times I have
a dreadful nausea of life and feel obliged to hide
away from my fellow-creatures for a while, and then
nothing brings me round but a plunge into my work.
Edana. Ah, dear, you work too hard.
Amphiel. No, no, it's my work that keeps me
alive. Edana, I feel that if I were to leave England
altogether
Edana. For life ?
Amphiel. For some years. There's a tremendous
field for temperance work in India. There, the fiend
is opium. Here, it's alcohol. But the craving, the
disease, is the same.
Edana. And you would go to India to live?
Amphiel. Dare I ask it of you ?
Edana. My father !
Amphiel. Ah ! I knew it was too much to ask.
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 57
Edana. No, no ! I'll do it if it is the best for
you. I gave myself to you and I won't draw back.
Yes, Walter, when you ask me I shall be ready.
Amphiel. Oh, I'm not worthy of you !
Edana. Not worthy of me? Oh, you are far
better and braver than I am. I love you for your
devotion to your work ! There's not another man in
the jvorld like you.
(Dr. Carey has entered zv i eke t gate R., and has
come upon them to overhear the last words,
and to see her looking up to Amphiel
with the greatest devotiofi. He sees
'I Amphiel — a momentary glance of recog-
nition between the two men. Amphiel
shows fright and mutely appeals to Dr.
Carey. Dr. Carey shou's great moment-
ary surprise with horror, which he
quickly coficeals.)
Dr. C. I beg pardon {Is going.)
Edana. No, Dr. Carey, don't go. I want to
introduce you. Mr. Amphiel — Dr. Carey.
(Amphiel again makes mute appeal to Dr.
Carey.)
Amphiel. How d'ye do. Dr. Carey?
{Offers hand, ivhich Carev takes after slight
reluctance.)
Dr. C. How d'ye do ?
Edana {to Dr. Carey). There is your patient.
He has come at last. {To Amphiel.) You are to
58 THE PHYSICIAN act il
put yourself entirely in his hands and do exactly as
he tells you, and {very excitedly) you will, you will for
my sake ?
(Amphiel looks at Dr. Carey with mingled
apprehension and appeal.)
Dr. C. {significantly looking at Amphiel). I'm
sure Mr. Amphiel will trust himself to me, and I shall
give him every care and attention.
Edana (/<; Amphiel). There! Now I'm satisfied!
I feel you are well already.
(Marah runs in at tvicket gate L., and comes
up to Ed AN A.)
Edana. I feel so happy ! I haven't got over the
thought that you are here ! Ah, Marah !
(Seizes the child, kisses her. Amphiel makes
a movement to stop her, which Edana
does not notice ; it is, however, seen by
Dr. Carey, 7uho for the moment does
not tinderstand it ; turns round to notice
Stephen, luho enters wicket gate l.
Dr. Qk9.'^\^'=> face shoivs a sudden illum-
ination of horror ; he turns to Amphiel,
who appeals to him. Dr. Carey stands
horror-stricken. )
Edana {hugging Marah). Oh, I'm so happy,
Marah, so happy ! You must come with me and I
must give you something to make you happy. {To
Amphiel.) You're to tell him everything and then
come on to the Vicarage to me. I've so much to talk
ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 59
about! Come, Marah. {To Stephen.) I'm going
to take her with me, Mr. Gurdon. Come and fetch
her by and by. {To Amphiel.) Don't be long ! I'm
waiting for you ! Don't be long !
{Exit, R.,/ont//ifigM.\KAH. Stepu-E's/o/Zows.
Dr. Carey, as soon as Edana and
Marah have gone off, allows hwiself
the full expression of his horror to
* Amphiel, points to Stephen's retreating
figure. Amphiel stands abject, appeal-
ing. Exit Stephen, r.)
Amphiel {in a whisper). You won't betray me?
-Dr. C. My God ! My God ! You ! You to be
her husband ?
Amphiel. You won't betray me? {Agonized.)
You won't betray me ?
Dr. C. Betray you ? No ! But you'll break off
this engagement.
Amphiel. I can't ! I can't ! I love her so much.
And she loves me. It would break her heart. I can't
give her up ! I'll make myself worthy of her. It's
not too late ! I can do anything for her sake. I can
conquer myself and I will ! Help me ! You're a
physician. She said you could cure me. Will you ?
Will you ? I throw myself on your mercy ! Save me !
Dr. C. {hesitates for a few nwmejits. He looks very
searchingly at Amphiel, seizes Amphiel's hands, makes
Amphiel look at him. Hymn in church). Will you
put yourself in my hands from this moment ? Will
6o THE PHYSICIAN act ii
you give yourself over to me, do as I bid you, be
guided by me in everything, till I have done my best
to heal you, made a new man of you, so far as that is
possible ? Will you do it ?
Amphiel. Yes, yes — anything. And you'll save
me from myself?
Dr. C. Trust to me ! Whatever human skill
and patience can do, I'll do for you, and I'll never
leave you while there's a hope that I can drag you
out of this mire and make you fit to hold up your
head before all men, and before her ! Trust to me,
my poor lad, trust to me !
Curtain.
(Six months pass between Acts II. and III. )
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ACT III
Scene — The Abbot's Kitchen atFontleas, a very
QUAINT, irregular GoTHIC BuILDING ADAPTED
TO A MODERN LIVING-ROOM, WITH EVIDENCES OF
FREQUENT RESTORATION AND ALTERATION.
On the R. down stage a large old-fashioned fireplace with
ornaments and photographs, one of them a photograph
<?/" Amphiel and Edana taken together. Above the
fireplace a large oldfashioned armchair, very deep ; a
small table on castors is laid with the remains of
dinner for two. Chairs above and to L. of table.
The whole of this R. side of the room is curtained in
and forms a cosy nook — the curtains of heavy dark
material run from an angle in the wall up stage to
within about two yards of the footlights, and are
hu7ig on a brass rod suspended from the ceiling,
which is rather low. Above and in line with the
curtains is a door, called throughout the Act the
inner door. All the L. side of the stage at back is
taken up with a deep recess and bay zvindow. In
this recess is a large table with microscopes, glass
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 63
bottles^ tubes, scientific instruments and apparatus,
books, papers, MSS., scientific periodicals, etc. At
the sides of the recess and under the bay window
are shelves filled with scientific books, and there are
heaps of books on the floor in the recess. The
window looks out upon a wintry night landscape
with moon. The window and recess are also
curtained off by curtains. These curtains run
'across R. and L. The space to the L. makes a kind
of hall, and is carpeted but sparely furnished, one
or two chairs and a small table somewhat to the
L. In the L. wall a window up stage, and a very
/Jarge thick old oak door with heavy handle and lock
and key doivn stage. Between the window and door
on the L. are several pegs with hats, overcoats, and
an ufnbrella stand with utnbrella and sticks.
Time : about half past sei>en on a December evening.
Discover Dr. Carey and Brooker at the little table
R., curtained in by the curtain running down stage
fro?n the inner door. Dr. Carey is on the chair
above the table, Brooker on a chair at the side of
the table. The curtains running across the stage
are also draw?i, shutting off the table and scientific
apparatus. They have Just finished dinner, and a
bright fire is bumi?ig.
Dr. C. Well, I told you I was equal to a plain
dinner.
64 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
Brooker. Excellent. A cutlet, a cold chicken,
and a bottle of seventy-five claret, what can a man
want more ?
Dr. C. And you really took me by surprise.
Brooker. I had the afternoon to spare. I looked
up "Bradshaw," found I could just catch a train, have
an hour with you, and get back by the late express.
What a confounded queer place to live in, Carey !
(^Looking xoimd the place.)
Dr. C. Yes, it was the kitchen belonging to the
old abbey. It tumbled into decay and got turned
into a farmhouse. It tumbled into decay again, the
farmer himself tumbled into decay, and died ; his
widow sold off the land, patched the old place up,
and made it just fit for me to live in.
Brooker. And you can really live here all alone ?
Dr. C. Not all alone. I have two human com-
panions, and some millions of microbes.
Brooker. And where are they, the human com-
panions ?
Dr. C. My housekeeper, old Granny Barton, is
racked with rheumatism, so I've sent her over to
Buxenham for a course of treatment, and her neighbour
Mrs. Bowden comes in and does for me. Then I've
one patient, Mr. Walter Amphiel — fill your glass.
Brooker {filling glass). Amphiel, the Temper-
ance organiser — does he let you drink seventy-five
claret ?
Dr. C. No. I've not tasted wine for the last six
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 65
months, all the time he has been with me. But he's
away just now.
Brooker. Oh — where is he ?
(Mrs. Bowden, a stout, pleasant- looking
country woman in bonfiet and shawl,
enters at inner door, drazvs aside the
curtains. )
Dr. C. Well, Mrs. Bowden, going for the night ?
'Mrs. B. Yes, doctor, unless there's anything I
can do for you.
Dr. C. Nothing, thank you.
Mrs. B. I suppose Mr, Amphiel won't be coming
back to-night ?
Dr. C. {after a slight pause). No, I think not.
Mrs. B. I've left his room ready for him in case
he does. And perhaps you'll excuse my going. I've
got my man to look after, and he does rave and storm
the house down if his supper ain't ready to the minute.
Dr. C. Ah ! husbands are tiresome animals, Mrs.
Bowden.
Mrs. B. {cordially). Oh they are, sir ! You know
'em, being a doctor. Whatever possesses a gal to get
married when she's well off, I cannot think. But the
chaps will come teasing and plaguing round us, and
we fools like it — and then, there it is — work and
worry and babies, work and worry and babies, nothing
else from the time you're twenty till you're wore out.
Oh dear, oh dear ! I do hope there's some good
purpose running through it all.
F
66 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
Dr. C. I hope so, Mrs. Bowden. But the ways
of Providence are dark.
Mrs. B. Oh, they are, sir. You may well say
that. Breakfast as usual, sir ?
Dr. C. Breakfast as usual, Mrs. Bowden.
Mrs. B. Then I'll say good- night, sir. {To
Brooker.) And good-night X.o you, sir.
Dr. C. Good-night, Mrs. Bowden ! ) . ^
;■ (Together.)
Brooker. Good-night! > j \ <^ /
{Exit Mrs. Bowden at inner door. As she
goes off. Dr. Carey rises, pushes chair
back from table, further draws back the
curtain. Brooker nioiies his chair.
Carey pushes table a little out into
centre of room and up towards the inner
door — // remains there Just on the right
side of the curtaiji line during the
remainder of Act.)
Dr. C. {taking out watch). You've half an hour
yet, old fellow. Light your cigar and let's make the
most of it.
Brooker. How can you bury yourself in this
hole, Carey?
Dr. C. Hole? Bury myself? I've been living,
Brooker, the last few months, really living for the first
time in my life.
Brooker. But you're wasting yourself down here.
Dr. C. Wasting myself! I work from morning
to night. {Goes up to curtains, draws thetn aside, dis-
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 67
covers the back of the room and table with scientific
apparatus, etc.) Look ! {Takes up a tttbe, holds it to
Brooker.) Don't whisper it, Brooker, I fancy I'm
on the track of the cancer microbe ! I'm not sure I
haven't got my gentleman here. And I shall have a
little to say and a great deal to do when the next
cholera outbreak comes. You know I was always
more of a student than a practitioner. I never had
quite a good bedside manner, Brooker.
Brooker. And you've quite made up your mind
not to come back to London ?
Dr. C. Quite. So settle yourself in Cavendish
Square, physic away, and say no more about it.
[Goes rather restlessly to outer door, opens it,
looks out, shuts it.)
Brooker. Are you expecting anybody ?
Dr. C. No. Only the evening post.
Brooker. Carey, I shan't like leaving you to-night.
Dr. C. Why not ?
Brooker. There's something wrong with you.
I've been watching you. You're feverish, restless,
unsettled.
Dr. C. Am I ?
Brooker. What ails you? Can an old friend
be of any help or comfort ?
Dr. C. I'll tell you, Brooker. I don't think I
could speak of this to anybody but you. It's too
sacred.
Brooker. Go on !
68 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
Dr. C. I suppose most of us have been attracted
and have lightly loved many women. Those loves
are not love. And I suppose most of us have had,
once in our lives, an overpowering passion.
Brooker. Yes. Thank God, I got mine over
early, when I was twenty-five.
Dr. C. And since then ?
Brooker. Since then I've been too busy scraping
together bread and cheese for Mrs. ^Brooker and my
family to get into much mischief of that sort. And
now I hope I'm comfortably past the danger of
making myself a fool for a woman.
Dr. C. {looking at him). You're not to be envied,
Brooker.
Brooker. Perhaps not. But Mrs. Brooker is.
Go on.
Dr. C. You remember my coming down here last
spring? I was quite hopeless, except for the one
thought that perhaps I might make Miss Hinde happy
by restoring her lover to health.
Brooker. Well ?
Dr. C. He went on a voyage to India. Mean-
time I saw a great deal of her, helped her in her
parish work, and doctored her invalids. Brooker,
before Amphiel came back, I couldn't disguise from
myself that my whole future, my whole being, my
whole life, were bound up in that girl.
Brooker. Nonsense, Carey ! Nonsense ! Non-
sense !
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 69
Dr. C. No, Brooker, Wisdom ! Wisdom ! From
the moment I saw her, I became young and hopeful
again. She has sweetened and blessed and renewed
the whole earth for me. I tell you, Brooker, of all
the millions around us she and I are the only living
creatures on this earth.
Brooker. Nonsense ! Nonsense ! Nonsense !
Dr. C. No, Wisdom ! Wisdom ! Wisdom ! If
Iv'had to part from her, I feel that moment I should
drop back again into madness and despair. With
her — with her — O my God ! Brooker — with her what
a splendid life I could live in this dull world for the
ijext thirty years.
Brooker. But you say she is engaged to Am-
phiel ?
Dr. C. Yes.
Brooker. And she's attached to him ?
Dr. C. Devotedly attached.
Brooker. And she doesn't suspect your feelings
for her ?
Dr. C. She must know that I have a great regard
for her, perhaps guesses that I love her. But so far
as I have been able, I have been perfectly loyal to
her, and to him.
Brooker. Carey, this is madness, you know. It
can't continue. Why don't you get away from this
place and leave her to marry the fellow ?
Dr. C. I told you he is my patient.
Brooker. Oh yes, of course. You said he'd
70 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
been living with you here for some months. {Gets up
to light his cigar, goes to fireplace.) Curious arrange-
ment. What's the matter with him ? {At that moment
his eyes fall upon the photograph of Amphiel and
Edana which is on the shelf of the fireplace ; he shows
some astonishment and takes up the photograph.)
Carey, whose portraits are these ?
Dr. C. That is Amphiel — and Miss Hinde, taken
together. *
Brooker {startled). This man Amphiel — this —
Amphiel ?
Dr. C. Yes— why?
Brooker. The young fellow who consulted
you
Dr. C. Of course. You saw him that evening.
I had forgotten.
Brooker. You forgot, too, that he had consulted
me about four years before. Carey, I wasn't mistaken
— that man is a drunkard.
Dr. C. Yes.
Brooker. A hopeless drunkard ?
Dr. C. No — not quite hopeless, since he has
been here with me.
Brooker. And she doesn't know ?
Dr. C. She hasn't the least thought of it. She
could see he was ill, and asked me to take him under
my care. I've had him hanging round my neck like
a millstone for the last six months.
Brooker. Where is he now ?
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN ^\
Dr. C. I don't know. But I shall know in a few
minutes — as soon as the post comes in.
{Looking anxiously at the outer door.)
Brooker. I don't understand — you seem
Dr. C. I seem — what?
Brooker. You seem to be waiting for some bad
news of him.
Dr. C. I am ! I hate him, Brooker ! I may as
Well show you all my heart now I've begun. I hate
him ! Damn him ! I hate him ! for he stands between
her and me. I brought him here to live with me ; I've
been alone with him all this while. I've scarcely let
him go out of my sight. The strain has been awful.
At times it has almost driven me mad. To sit here
and talk to him, soothe him, amuse him, knowing all
the while that the devil inside him was urging him to
get away and ruin himself. I've been doctor, nurse,
father, brother, friend to him. I never had such a
task. But I've done it, because she loves him. And
partly because the man interests me, fascinates me.
Here's the strange thing — I hate him, but I want to
save him. I began to feel proud of the case. I saw
him growing brighter, happier, stronger every day.
And it made her so happy. She was so grateful to
me. Well, all went well with him till three weeks
ago
Brooker. What then ?
Dr. C. He went out for a walk with her and
persuaded her that his temperance work called him
72 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
away. She believed him and came back alone. We
got no news of him. She grew more and more
anxious, and a week ago I went up to London and
put the matter in the hands of Nicholson the private
detective. I got this telegram from him this morn-
ing
( Takitig telegram from pocket and giving it
to Brooker.)
Brooker {reading the tekgratfi). " Have dis-
covered the person. Am writing you fully by this post.
Nicholson." {Giving back telegram to Dr. Carey.)
And you fear
Dr. C. Fear? No, Brooker — that's it — I don't
fear — I almost hope. {A postman's knock at outer
door.) The post ! {Goes to door, opens it.)
Postman {without, handing in letter). Bitter cold
again to-night, sir.
Dr. C. {taking letter). \^ery cold.
Postman. Good-night, sir.
Dr. C. Good-night, Carter.
{Closes door, looking intently at letter.)
Brooker. From Nicholson ?
Dr. C. Yes. {Opens letter 7vatched by Brooker.
As he reads his face shows an intense stealthy interest,
grooving more and more eager, almost malignant. Very
quiet hoarse tone denoting the utinost suppressed excite-
fnent.) He has broken out, Brooker. They've found
him in one of the lowest dens in Bristol. He has
been there for some days. Last night he got away
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 73
from there — they don't know where. Read.
(Bkooker takes letter.) Oh, what a wretch I am to
rejoice that a man is ruined !
B ROCKER {reads). "He was, however, in a much
calmer state last night, and had almost recovered.
He seems to have had some suspicion that he was
being watched, for during the evening he managed
to get away. We are making urgent inquiries for him
in every direction, and will let you know as soon as
we have traced him. ^^'e have carefully observed
your instructions concerning secrecy, and have not
allowed his name to transpire." Got away? What
do you suppose has become of him ?
Dr. C. How should I know ? Am I his keeper ?
Haven't I done my best? For the last six months
I've held that man from slipping over the precipice.
If I had let go my hold for one moment he would
have dropped. Now he has tumbled in spite of me !
Well, I can't help it. I've done with him ! I give
him up ! Am I not justified ? Eh ? Eh ? Am I
not justified ?
Brooker. Carey ! Carey !
Dr. C. You know I'm justified ! I am ! I am !
I gave him every chance, more than every chance.
I've fought for him against himself! I've kept sus-
picion away from her ! I've watched him making love
to her day after day, and I've watched her lifting her
face to his with a look of that I'd whistle my soul
away to get from her. Now that's all past ! It's
74 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
going to be my turn ! I'm free of him and she shall
be free of him. Yes, I understand her nature, she
won't love him when she knows the truth.
Brooker. And you'll let her know ?
Dr. C. How can I help it ? Why should I try
to hinder it ?
(A knock at the meter door. During the above
speeches Brooker has unobtrusively laid
the letter ofi the table i^.)
Dr. C. Is it Amphiel ? {Goes to door, opens it.)
Enter Edana in outdoor winter dress.
Dr. C. Miss Hinde.
Edana. You have a visitor.
Dr. C. {presenting). Doctor Brooker — Miss Hinde.
(Edana boivs.)
Brooker {bowing). How d'ye do? {Takes out
watch.) Carey, I must be going. {Goes to l. side of
the room where his hat and overcoat are hanging, takes
them doivn.) I'm sorry to be leaving you, but I've
only just time to catch my train.
(Dr. Carey goes and lielps him on with over-
coat. Edana goes towards fire ^
Brooker. How long will it take me to get to the
station ?
Dr. C. About ten minutes.
Brooker. You'll let me know how this turns
out?
ACT HI THE PHYSICIAN 75
Dr. C. Yes.
Brooker. Good-night, Miss Hinde.
Edana. Good-night, Dr. Brooker.
Brooker {to Dr. Carey). Good-bye.
Dr. C. Good-bye. You're sure you know your
way?
Brooker. Oh yes. Carey, old fellow {glancing at
Edana), are you sure you know yours ?
{A significant look.)
Dr. C. I'll try and find it.
{Exit Brooker at outer door.)
Dr. C. {closes door after Brooker and comes to
Edana, very tetiderly). Miss Hinde.
Edana. Have you heard anything of Walter ?
Dr. C. {hesitates). I hope I shall have some news
for you in a day or two.
Edana. In a day or two ! But I can't wait. I
feel sure he's in some danger or trouble. And I can't
get to him !
Dr. C. {very searchingly, but without showing it to
her). Suppose you had to hear some bad news of
him — you would be brave and bear it?
Edana. What do you mean ?
Dr. C. You still wish to share in this great enter-
prise of his — you are still as much attached to his
cause — and to him ?
Edana. Is there any need to ask me that ? You
know I am ! Why do you ask me ? You've heard
something ! He's dead !
76 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
Dr. C. No. You needn't fear that.
Edana. He's ill. You've had news. {At this
uwfuent Dr. Carey's eyes fall on the letter Brooker
has laid on the table L. She follows his glance. Dr.
Carey takes up the letter.) That letter ! It's about him !
Why don't you speak ? Oh, why do you torture me ?
Dr. C. {holding letter). Miss Hinde, tell me, you
know I wouldn't willingly torture you
Edana. I'm sure you wouldn't. But if that letter
has news of Mr. Amphiel, let me see it — or at least
tell me what it contains. {Holding out her hand.)
Dr. C. {his face shozvs a inonientar\> struggle). Tell
me, you know that I would always do what I thought
to be best for you and him — at least, best for you.
Edana. I'm sure you would, but — I must know-
where he is. Why won't you tell me ?
Dr. C. I don't know, and this letter doesn't say.
To read it would only add to your anxiety. Trust
me. You've trusted me for many months past. Say
that you'll trust me a little longer ?
Edana {looks at him). Yes, I will trust you.
Dr. C. {futs letter in pocket). And rest assured
we shall have some news of him before long.
Edana. Ah, but when ? Oh, I can't wait \ I've
not slept for three nights.
Dr. C. Not slept for three nights !
{A knock at outer door. Dr. Carey goes to
it, opens it.)
Dr. C. Lady Yalerie !
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 77
Lady Valerie, in very handsome widow's mourning,
enters, followed by Saunders, her maid, also in
mourning.
Lady V. It's an unconscionable hour to call.
But I see you do receive visitors as late as this.
{Glanci?ig at Edana. Bows to her. Edana bows.)
Ar$ you at home ?
Dr. C. Yes, certainly. As soon as I've seen
Miss Hinde safely to the Vicarage.
Edana. Oh, please no.
.Lady V. My maid shall go with you.
Edana. It's only a few steps across the fields,
and there is a moon. I won't have any one come
with me. Good-night, Lady Valerie.
Lady V. Good-night.
Edana. Good-night, Dr. Carey.
Dr. C. Good-night. Sleep well to-night. You
can and you will.
Edana. Oh, I can't.
Dr. C. Try. Try. And to-morrow we may have
news !
Edana. Oh, I can't endure the suspense !
{Exit Edana at outer door. Dr. Carey
looks after her.)
Lady V. Saunders, you've had nothing since
lunch. Go to the inn and get something to eat.
And wait for me there.
Saunders. Yes, my lady.
78 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
(Dr. Carey holds the door open for Saunders
and closes it after her.)
Dr. C. This is an unexpected pleasure
Lady V. Pleasure ?
Dr. C. What brings you back here ?
Lady V. Boredom ! Boredom ! Boredom !
Boredom devours me everywhere. Even burying
one's husband has a smack of it. And widowhood,
which in the distance seems a rosy paradise, is nothing
but a Sahara when you get there. You don't seem
very pleased to see me. Am I welcome ?
Dr. C. I'll try to make you so.
Lady V. You'll try ? You're terribly frank.
Dr. C. Won't it be better for us to be quite
honest with each other?
Lady V. You talk as if we had tried the other
policy and it hadn't quite succeeded.
Dr. C. I've always been quite honest with you —
at least, in all the great things of life.
Lady V. There are no great things in life, my
poor Lewin. It's all very small beer, and very scanty
skittles. {Looking at the table.) White muslin has
been dining with you tete-a-tete ?
Dr. C. No, my old friend Brooker. He has just
left for London.
Lady V. But white muslin was here. I'm horribly
jealous — but I'm horribly hungry too.
Dr. C. And I've only cold chicken to offer you.
But you are heartily welcome.
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 79
Lady V. I am heartily welcome to your cold
chicken. Thank you. I'll try your cold chicken.
{Sitting down to table.)
Dr. C. My servant has gone for the night, so
I'm all alone.
{A knock at outer door. Dr. Carey goes to
open it, opens it, telegraph boy hands in
a telegram. Dr. Carey closes door.)
Dr. C. Allow me.
{Opens telegram, reads it, shows great interest}^
Lady V. You're all alone. Where is your patient
Mr. Amphiel?
"Dr. C. He has been away. Curiously enough,
this telegram is from him. He is coming back
to-night.
{A pause. Dr. Carey stands much absorbed
lookifigat the telegram.)
Lady V. What's the matter? Has anything
happened to him ?
Dr. C. {recalling himself). No. Nothing.
{Puts telegram in pocket.)
Lady V. Then light your cigar and talk to me.
But don't look at me while I'm eating.
Dr. C. Not look at you ?
Lady V. I'm sure your later theory is right.
Women are entirely spiritual. I constantly feel little
shootings and sproutings about my shoulder-blades
where my wings will be, and then isn't it disgusting ?
two or three times every day my hatefully healthy
8o THE PHYSICIAN act iii
appetite drives me to toy with such gross realities as
this. {Holding up a chicken botie.) Oh, don't laugh
at me ! If you knew how sad my heart is — {deep sigh)
you never sent me a word, Lewin.
Dr. C. What could I say ?
Lady V, Any cut-and-dried message of condolence
would have done. It would have cost you nothing
and it would have meant so much to me. I wonder
if any man ever guesses the exquisite agony a woman
feels who waits and waits and waits for one word of
love from the man to whom she has been all the world
— and waits in vain.
Dr. C. I wonder if any woman ever guesses the
exquisite agony a man feels who is thrown over by the
woman who is all the world to him — thrown over for,
perhaps, the first chance acquaintance.
Lady V. No. No. There you're wrong. It
wasn't the first chance acquaintance. Let it pass.
You're mean to remind me of that, — as mean as a
woman.
Dr. C. As mean as a woman !
Lady V. Yes, that's the perpetual paradox of
womanhood. We are angels — I feel sure of it — and
yet we do such mean things. How do you account
for it ?
Dr. C. I can't. I trust, meantime, you're making
a comfortable dinner.
Lady V. I feel as if I were picnicking on my
mother's grave in the damp.
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 8i
Dr. C. Why ?
Lady V. Cold chicken is as cold as cold shoulder.
But cold chicken and love make a divine hot collation.
Dr. C. I fear I have only cold chicken to offer
you.
Lady V. {shrugs her shoulders — goes on eating.
After a little pause). You haven't asked me about the
last' two months.
Dr. C. Tell me.
Lady V. You know I got a telegram saying that
it was only a question of a few weeks. So I went out
to, him at once. I didn't wish to outrage the decent
hypocrisies whereby men live
Dr. C. Men don't live by hypocrisies.
Lady V. Well, society does. And I've always
loyally respected them and lived up to them. Well,
I went out to him and was perfectly kind and attentive
to him to the last. And so ended the tragic farce of
my married life. It's over. I spent one month in
unselfishly nursing him — I spent the next month in
unselfishly devising a scheme of widow's mourning
that should spare my bereaved sisters the additional
pang of feeling themselves perfect frights during the
period of their greatest sorrow. {Gets up and comes
away from table.) How do you think I have succeeded ?
{She has a long handsome cloak with black
fur. She stands with arms extended
and with a little entreating gesture
toivards him.)
G
82 THE rilVSICIAN act hi
Dr. C. {coldly). Admirably, I should say. But
I'm no judge.
L.\DY V. Do you know what I was thinking all
the time I was planning this mourning? I was think-
ing— will it give me one of my old moments of charm
in his eyes? Or, if not, will it give me some new
little grace or attraction ?
{He does not reply. She stands for a moment
until a little appealing gesture, then
suddenly bursts into a tempest of tears.)
Dr. C. Lady Valerie! {She is sobbing) Lady
\'alerie, will you listen to me ?
Lady V. No ! No ! No ! Oh, 1 hate myself, and
1 hate you ! I hate you ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Let me go !
{Pie is betioeen her and the door.)
i)u. C. No. Hear me. I cannot give you the
love I once offered you, and I have too tender a
regard for the past and for you to offer you the ghost
of it. Would you have me do it ? Would you have
me offer you a fiction, a lie ? Would you have me
pretend to love you, knowing that my whole heart, my
every thought and hope and desire belong to another
woman ?
Lady V. But you can never marry her ! {A
curious look of hope on Dr. Carey's /z^^ which she sees
and interprets.) She has broken off her engagement
to Mr. Amphiel? Something has happened to
him ?
Dr. C. No. He is now on his way here.
ACT III THE niYSICIAN 83
Lady V. Then what makes you so hopeful ? You
can never marry her.
Dr. C. No, perhaps not.
Lady V. And you might come back to me. — It's
not too late ? it's not too late ? you might change ?
( Very imploringly.^
-Dr. C. I shall never change. {Very firmly.) I
shall never change.
{^Slic stands very hopeless for some seconds, then
makes a shrug of resignation. Her
manner changes, and is careless and off-
hand till the end of the scene.)
Lady V. Very well. Put on your hat and coat
and see me across to the inn. Put on your hat and
coat. {He takes his hat and coat.) I want your advice.
Dr. C. Advice ? About what ?
Ladv V. Marriage. I can have Bertie Fewins or
Sir George Doudney. Which shall it be ?
Dr. C. Neither.
Lady V. Oh, it must be one or the other. And
it must be settled at once ; so I shall get back by the
mail to-night. {Going towards outer door.) Come.
Dr. C. This will be our nearest way to the George.
It will save us the lane. Take my arm through the
passage. {Indicating inner door.)
Lady V. {taking his arm). Which shall it be?
Bertie or Sir George ?
Dr. C. Neither! Neither! Why should it be
either ?
S4 THE rnVSICIAN ACT iii
Lady V. My dear Lewin, what shall I be in five
years' time if I don't marry somebody ? What shall I
do ? I'm neither a saint nor a fool, so I can't stand
perpetual church-going. No ! It must be marriage.
Bertie or Sir George ?
Dr. C. That won't be marriage, that will be
desecration of a woman's soul !
Lady V. (s/mics her head, makes <z face as if taking
physic). It's a devil of a world for women, I^win.
For God's sake don't moralise about it.
{Exeunt at inner door. A very long pause.
A knock at outer door. The knock is
repeated. The Rev. Peregrine Hinde
puts in his head at outer door and looks
round. )
Rev. p. {calling out). Dr. Carey ! Mrs. Bowden !
Dr. Carey! {Coming in.) I came to Taffy's house.
Taffy wasn't at home. {Speaking off.) There's nobody
here.
Re-enter Edana at outer door.
Edana. Won't Dr. Carey think it strange of me
coming again ?
Rev. p. No, no. I've got a waggon -load of
excuses. He can't have gone far. We'll wait till he
comes back. {They go towards fire.) There ! Sit
down ! {She sits in armchair.)
Edana. I'm sure he has had some news, and I'm
ACT III THE niVSICIAN 85
sure it's bad news. Oh, I must know — do you think
he'll tell us the truth ?
Rev. p. If he doesn't tell us, I must gently
wheedle it out of him. Have you ever studied the
composition of my character, Edana ?
Edana. No.
,Rev. p. No? Then you've never observed how
exquisitely Providence has blended in me the beautiful
transparent innocence of the dove with the subtle and
useful wisdom of the serpent. We'll begin by asking
him for some litde sleeping draught
'I Edana. Oh, I cannot endure another night !
Rev. p. Indeed you can. The human spirit can
endure unendurable things. There is nothing the
human spirit cannot endure. Come, come ! {C/iaJing
her hands.) How cold these poor little paws are !
Put your head on the cushion ! There ! {Arranging
her comfortably in armchair.) Rest a little till Dr.
Carey comes. Now what shall I do to while away the
time ? Shall I preach you a little sermon ? Or shall
I tell you a little tale? Or shall I sing you a little
song ? Or shall I do all three ?
Edana. All three. You don't think "Walter is ill
— or dead ? Oh, what shall I do ?
Rev. p. Hush ! Hush ! Hush ! {Soothes her
doivn.) The times are not in our hands. {From this
time she shows signs of drowsiness, until the middle of
the song, tvhen she is fast asleep.) Now, first the little
sermon. You should never put all your eggs in one
86 THE PHYSICIAN act in
basket, unless that basket is made of celestial wicker-
work and is safely stored away in heaven. That's the
sermon. Its metaphors are a little mixed, but its
brevity is undeniable. Now for the little tale. There
was once a wilful, headstrong, reckless, loose-living
young man whose name was — whose name was ?
Edana {a littk dro7i<sily). Peregrine Hinde.
Rev. p. Peregrine Hinde. And he loved with
all his heart a beautiful heartless woman, whose name
was — whose name was ?
Edana. Venetia Lee, and she jilted him.
Rev. P. She did. And he went about in black
despair for months. He thought his heart was broken
all to pieces. But it wasn't. He conquered his
trouble, and he met another girl who made him a
dear, true helpmeet all the years of his manhood. And
now when he remembers that old trouble, it's only to
think of the use and the beauty of sorrow.
Edana. What use ? What beauty ?
Rev. P. The use of beautifying our faces.
Happiness rounds a face into earthly beauty, but
sorrow bravely borne carves it into heavenly loveliness.
That's one use. And there's no use in this world so
useful as beauty. And another use is to beautify
our characters and fortify our spirits. Dear me, dear
me, dear me ! I'm preaching another sermon. And
another use that old troubles have is the use of making
a tale to tell to our children over the fire on a winter
evening. There ! Now for the little song !
ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 87
{By this time her eyes are closed. He croons
out an old country song — stops in the
middle of it and looks at her — sees she is
fast asleep. A knock at the outer door.
Rev. Peregrine Hinde goes to open
it, opens it.)
Stepiif.n Gurdon enters.
Rev. p. Stephen !
Stephen. Is the Doctor here?
, Rev. p. No, I'm waiting for him. What's the
matter?
Stephen, Jessie's come home.
Rev. p. Jessie !
Stephen. She wants to see a doctor, so I thought
I'd come here as Dr. Carey is nearest. And she said
she should like to see you too, pa'son.
Rev. p. Very well, Stephen. I'll come to her.
Is she ill ?
Stephen. She ain't in any immediate danger, but
she doesn't look as if she'd got many months to live.
Rev. p. Poor child I Is she changed ?
Stephen. She's what you might expect her to be.
What would any girl be after five years of that life ?
What would
(Glancing very significa?itly at Ed ana, who
is sleeping in the armchair.)
Rev. p. {hastily.) Hush ! Hush ! She hasn't
88 THE niVSICIAX act in
slept for three nights ! {Draics the curtains dcnvn.) I
can leave her for a few minutes. Now, Stephen, I'll
go with you !
{Exeunt Stephen and Rev. Peregrine
HiNDE at outer door. A long pause.)
Edana {asleep, moans). \\'alter ! AN'alter ! Come
away from them I Come ! I'll take care of you ! Ah !
{A little shriek.) Don't hurt him ! You don't know
how brave and good he is ! Make haste, dear ! Make
haste! {Laughs.) That's right! Come along!
Dearest ! Dearest ! Dearest ! ( / 'ery caressing, ivith
movement of stroking his hair with her hand.) Where
have you been all this while? Why did you leave
me so long ? And not a word ! Oh, it's cruel !
Don't leave me again ! You won't ? You won't ?
{A long moan, then silence. After a long
pause, Dr. Carey enters at inner door,
goes up to the table in the bay icindow,
throws off his hat and overcoat, and puts
them carelessly on the chair R. of table
in window, takes up a glass slide, puts
it under microscope, is busy bending over
it for sofne seconds. Am phi el's face
appears to the right of the window at
back, he looks in and creeps stealthily all
round the windoiv. As soon as he has
disappeared to the left. Dr. Carev shows
sudden attention as if he were arrested by
a sound outside. He hastily leaves table
ACT III THE rUVSICIAN 89
and goes to the little windo^v l., looks off.
A gleam of interest^ almost triumph^
crosses his face. The handle of the outer
door is fumbled at and half turned. Dr.
Carey watches it. The handle is again
turned, and the door opens {on to the
stage), Amphiel's face being seen by the
, audience before it is seen by Dr. Carey.
Amphiel looks very haggard and dis-
sipated. His first expression seen by the
audience is watchful, sly, and anxious,
but as he enters, and is seen by Dr.
Carey, he assumes a frank, cordial
manner, goes up to Dr. Carey with
outstretched hand.)
Amphiel {-rery cordially). Ah, Doctor, you got
my telegram
Dr. C. {refusing his hand). Ves.
Amphiel. I thought I'd let you know I was
coming. I've been working in the good cause. I
knew you wouldn't let me go, so I slipped away.
Won't you shake hands with me and welcome me
back?
Dr. C. {rather sternly). Where have you been ?
Amphiel {7vith the utmost frankness). In the West
of England looking after the refuges I started last
year. We've done such good work in Bristol.
(Edana stirs a little and jnoz'es her ha?id.) Why do
you look at me like that ?
90 THE rilYSICIAN act hi
Dr. C. {more sternly). Where have you been ?
Amphiel. What makes you so angry with me?
Surely you don't suspect — you don't suspect that I've
broken my word ?
Dr. C. i{i'ery sternly). Where have you been ?
Amphiel. Don't I tell you ? I've been engaged
in my work.
Dr. C. All the time ?
Amphiel. Yes, every day, every hour, almost
every minute since I left you. I've done nothing
el.^e.
Dk. C. You liar !
(Edan.\ opens her eyes and looks round, scarcely
awake, listens as if in contimiance of
}ur dream, gradually growing more arid
more interested.)
Amphiel. You don't believe me ? I can give you
an account of how I have spent every moment of my
absence.
Dr. C. Shall I give you an account instead?
Shall I tell you where and how you have spent the last
few days ? You've been at the Harp in Temple Mead,
Bristol, one of the lowest and filthiest dens in the
place. Shall I tell you in what condition and in
whose company you've been ? You've been lying
there in a drunken debauch since last Thursday, in
the company of sots and harlots, fouling, maddening,
destroying yourself.
Amphiel. It's true ! It's true ! I'm a beast \
-ACT III THE PHYSICIAN 91
I'm a beast ! I'm not fit to live — I'll go and end it
this moment. {Rushing oj} (awards outer door.)
Dr. C. Stop, you fool I There's somebody else
to think of. Do you know what this means to her?
Do you know that she has been night and day on a
rack of suspense ? She was here just now begging —
begging me to give her some news of you.
; Amphiel. You didn't tell her?
Dr. C. No. I left that for you to do. Go and
report yourself to her.
Amphiel. What do you mean ?
Dr. C. She must know sooner or later. Do you
think I will let you wreck her life as well as your own ?
Do you think I will stand by and let her marry you ;
bear you children that will perhaps inherit your taint
in every bone and nerve, let her watch you sinking
inch by inch into imbecility and corruption, while she
gradually loses all her beauty and trust and love —
Oh, my God ! what a gift for a man ! — and becomes
a hopeless, wretched drudge to you and your vice
— do you think I'll stand by and see that? Eh,
do you think I will ? No ! put an end to it. Do
you hear? Put an end to it! She's over at the
Vicarage waiting for news of you. Go and tell her
what you are.
(Ed.\na, who has been listem'tig, a7nazed and
horrified, comes to curtains still dazed
and ovenvhelmed. )
Amphiel. Very well. You can make me tell her ;
92 THE PHYSICIAN act hi
but, mark me, if you do I'll end it. The moment
she knows me for what I am I'll kill myself.
(Edana, who is about to dratv aside the
curtains and declare herself, draws back,
stafids still, horror-stricken, till end of
scene.)
Amphiel {suddenly turns to Dr. Carey, with an
outburst of agonised entreaty). Give ^ me one more
chance ! Don't let her know ! Give me one more
chance ! I'll keep my word this time !
Dr. C. Your word !
Amphiel. I will ! I will ! Don't despise me !
I'm not so bad as you think me. Oh, do hear me !
Don't let her know !
Dr. C. But to continue to deceive her — the
hypocrisy
Amphiel. I'm not a hypocrite ! I've given all
my time and money to save others from this curse !
I'm not a hypocrite ; don't think that of me ! Oh,
you don't know what awful struggles I've had — how
I've tried and tried and tried to conquer myself.
And I will ! I won't give way again ! Give me one
more chance ! You're my only friend ! don't turn
away from me ! Give me one more chance, only one,
only one. One more chance, for mercy's sake — one
more chance !
Dr. C. And if I did, how could I trust you now ?
Amphiel. I'll give you my oath. Listen. I
mean it. There's no going back from this. Remember
Act III THE PHYSICIAN 93
what I say and bring it up against me. If ever from
this time forth one cursed drop shall pass my Hps,
may I lose her, may I lose my soul and everything
that I hold dear in this world and the next. There !
I've said it. You believe me? You'll give me one
last chance for her sake ? One last chance !
Dr. C. For her sake, because I put her happiness
beyond everything in this world, I will give you one
last chance. I'll forget these last few weeks — do you
forget them too — and I'll help you again to the very
utmost of my power.
Amphiel {bursts into tears). God bless you ! I'll
-—I'll — I'll {breakhig doum, sobbing and exhausted).
God bless you ! You are good to me ! and I'll
deserve it. I will— I'll— I'll
Dr. C. Come ! come ! You're too excited. You
had better go to rest. Let me get you something
after your journey.
Amphiel. No. I can't eat. I — 1 — I {c/ingi?ig
to Dr. Carey piteously and crying feebly). Oh, I feel
so weak and wretched. I'll get to rest — I'll
Dr. C. Ah, my poor lad, this is a hard taskmaster
you've got. You've escaped him this time. Don't
fall into his hands again, for he'll have no mercy
on you.
Amphiel. I won't! I won't! {Crying.) Oh,
you are good to me. You won't leave me.
Dr. C. {very tenderly). No, no, I won't leave you.
Trust to me. Don't despair. We'll make a fresh
94 THE PHYSICIAN act in
start to-morrow. {Soothing him and helping him to
ifinerdoor.) Come, come ! Cheer up ! There, there !
A fresh start ! A new hfe to-morrow.
{Helping him off at inner door. Closes it.
Comes doivn stage slowly, reflectively,
with anxious face.
Edana, who has stood horror-stricken and
quite still behind the curtains, draws
them slowly aside. His eye catches the
movement of the curtains, and he watches
them, sees her standing there.)
Dr. C. You heard? {She signs " Yes.")
Curtain.
{A'ine months pass between Acts III. and IV^
ACT IV
Scene — The Vicarage Drawing-Room at Font-
leas, A PLEASANT COSY RoOM WITH PRETTY
CHINTZ Furniture.
«
A large windo^a at back looking over a garden in late
siwiiner. A door R. A door L. Discover Rev.
Peregrine up at window, which is open.
Rev. p. {calling off toivards l.). Go round, Mrs.
Bowden. Go round and come in !
{Crosses to left a fid opens the door.)
Enter Mrs. Bowden in her Sunday best.
Mrs. B. {curtseying). Good afternoon, pa'son. I
felt I must come and ask after Miss Ed ana — and
whether she has heard the good news ?
Rev. p. Good news ?
Mrs. B, We've just had a telegram from Dr.
Carey. He's coming back to-day. Haven't you
heard ?
96 THE PHYSICIAN act iv
Rev. p. Oh yes. We've had a telegram too.
Mrs. B. And of course Mr. Amphiel is coming
along with him ?
Rev. p. {rather troubled). Oh yes — Mr. Amphiel
is coming with him.
Mrs. B. I was so pleased, because I thought,
" There ! It's quite a providence Mr. Amphiel coming
back just as Miss Edana has got well again. How
is she ? "
Rev. p. Much better. Quite well ! Quite her
old self except for a little weakness.
Edax.v enters door R. ; her features are sharper, and
she shoics signs of illness and suffering.
Rev. p. Here she is !
Mrs. B. {going cordially to Edana). My dear, I
be so glad to see your pretty face again ! I must give
you a kiss for the sake of old times ! {Kissing her.)
Ah, there's somebody else coming to kiss you this
blessed day.
{A shade of trouble and horror crosses Edana's
face a fid she turns away.)
Mrs. B. And how are you, my dear ?
Edana. I'm better, thank you.
{Sits dotvn apart, with a quiet and reserved
manfter. Wedding bells ring out.)
Rev. p. Dear me ! I was forgetting — I've got to
marry James Hebbings and Louisa Pack. — I suppose
you're coming to the wedding, Mrs. Bowden ?
■kCT IV THE PHYSICIAN 97
Mrs. B. Yes, to be sure — and aren't you coming,
my dear — to see James and Louisa married ?
Edana. No — I'd rather stay at home.
Mrs. B. Ah, to be sure ! I don't wonder. You're
expecting Mr. Amphiel every minute. Let me see —
how long is it since he and Dr. Carey went away — it
was last December, wasn't it? — How time does slip
ayay J
Rev. p. {trying to get her away from Edana).
Yes, it does ! We ought to be at the church. — Come
along, Mrs. Bowden.
Mrs. B. {to Edana), Well, good-bye, my dear.
I* hear poor Jessie Gurdon is very near the end,
pa'son.
Rev. P, Yes, poor girl ! I was with her last
night, and I scarcely thought she'd last till this
niornmg.
Mrs. B. Oh dear, oh dear ! what a world of sin
and misery it is, to be sure ! It's a good job as
there's a better one by and by.
Rev. p. It's a bad job, Mrs. Bowden, that folks
don't make a good job of this one, here and now.
E)iter^ L., Lizzie, the Vicarage servant.
Lizzie. James Hebbings and Louisa Pack would
like to see you for a minute before the wedding, sir.
Rev. p. Show them in.
H
98 THE PHYSICIAN act iv
Lizzie beckons off and James and Louisa enter, l., in
their wedding clothes. They are arm-in-arm, and
James is very tnuch embarrassed.
James. We've come, pa'son
{Breaks down and has a /it tie fit of foolish
giggling.)
Louisa {nudging James). Do behave yourself,
James. {To Rev. Peregrine.) We thought as Miss
Edana wasn't coming to the church, we shouldn't like
her to miss seeing us in our wedding clothes.
{Spreading herself and James for Edana's
inspection.)
Edana. Thank you, Louisa — thank you, James.
( With effort to take an interest.)
Mrs. B. Very sweet, oh, very sweet. Quite
taking ! {Admiring them.)
James. And also we thought we might akse you,
pa'son, whether everything is in good order for the
wedding — that is, so fur as your part of these pro-
ceedings is concerned. {Adds thoughtfully) Thereby.
Rev. p. My part of the proceedings shall be duly
and punctually performed, James.
James. And ours also.
{Suddenly makes a grab at his waistcoat
pocket, shows alarm, feels in his pockets,
disengages himself from hoviSA., fumbles.)
Louisa What's the matter ?
James. I've lost the ring.
-ACT IV THE PHYSICIAN 99
Louisa. No — no
James. Yes — no, here it is. That's all right !
I'll make sure of it this time.
{Fhichii^ it carefully in pocket, keeps one Jiand
carefully on the pocket all the remainder
of the scene.)
Louisa. Do behave yourself, James. (James
gfz'es.hcr his arm very ceremoniously.) And we wish
you our best respects, miss. And we thank you for
your beautiful present. And we're so sorry you aren't
coming to the wedding
Mrs. B. AVhy don't you perk up a bit, my dear,
and come ?
Edana {(/uickly). No, no, indeed I can't. But I
hope you will be very happy.
James {7ciith a ^i^i^^le, glancing at Louisa). No fear !
And also no fear for you and Mr. Amphiel, miss
Louisa. And we hope you'll very soon be married
yourself, miss.
(Edana turns atvay to window and hides her
head. )
James. What's the matter ?
Mrs. B. Don't you see, you silly chap ? It's her
joy that her sweetheart's coming back. He's been
nearly all over the world, and she hasn't seen him for
nine months.
Rev. p. {ivho has shown sympathy with Edana).
Come, I think it's nearly time that we were all over at
the church. Now, James. Now, Louisa.
loo THE PHYSICIAN act iv
James {to Louisa). Have \vc said anything wrong?
{Exeunt James and Louisa ar7n-in-ar>n,
door L.)
Rev. p. Now, Mrs. Bowden
(Edana is sobbing a little in 7vindo7t>.)
Mrs. B. Good-bye, my dear ! It's joy at the
thought of seeing him !
{Making a tno7'ement to go to Edana.)
Rev. p. {intercepting Iter). If it Is joy, let it be
sacred. Leave her to me !
Mrs. B. {snivelling a little). I know what it is.
God bless you, my dear.
{Exit Mrs. Bowden door l., leaving the door
open.)
Rev. p. {to Edana). My dear ! this has been too
much for you.
(Lizzie shows in Stephen by tlie open door.
Exit Lizzie.
Rev. p. Stephen — it's all over ?
Stephen. Yes. I want a word with you, pa'son.
(Edana is going.) And with you too, miss.
Edana. Poor Jessie is gone ?
Stephen. Yes. She asked me to thank you, and
you too, pa'son, for all your kindness. {A little pause.)
And I think I ought to tell you
Rev. p. What ?
Stephen. Last night, in the middle of the night,
she was quite clear and bright, and she looked for a
minute or two like her old self. She told me the
ACT IV THE rilYSICIAN loi
name of the man who ruined her and took her away
from home.
Rev. p. Yes ? Who was it, Stephen ?
Stephen. It's the man that's coming back to
Fontleas to-day.
Rev. p. Are you sure, Stephen, it was he ?
Stephen. She was dying, and she didn't tell me
a/ lie.- You know the man I mean, miss ?
Edana. Yes.
Stephen. Then I needn't say any more. That's
the man that ruined Jessie and led her into that life
of shame. If you marry him now you marry him with
your eyes open. (Edana fi/rfis aivay.) I've done
right to warn her, pa'son ?
Rev. p. Yes, Stephen, you've done right.
Stephen. He's expected to-day, ain't he?
Rev. p. Yes, every minute.
Stephen. I shall have a word to say to him.
Rev. p. No, Stephen, no. You'll forgive him.
Go now ; I'll come over to you by and by.
Stephen. I shall have a word to say to him.
{Exit Stephen, l.)
Rev. p. My poor girl !
Edana. Father, I cannot marr)' him ! I cannot !
I cannot ! We were wrong not to tell him before he
left England.
Rev. p. We did it for the best. Dr. Carey said
that if he knew you had found him out it would most
likely prey upon his mind and drive him to drink and
I02 THE rHVSICIAN aci iv
death. And when Dr. Carey offered to give him one
more chance and take him away
Edana. I think Dr. Carey is the truest and best
man that ever lived. I can never thank him enough.
But I was wrong to let him go, I ought to have told
Walter and broken it off at the time
Rev. p. Suppose you had, and had sent him to
despair
Edana. He will have to know now. I wonder he
hasn't guessed it from my letters. I wonder he didn't
guess it when I wished him " Good-bye," for I shud-
dered and felt — oh, I cannot tell you how I felt —
almost as if I hated him. And all these months he
has been away, I have felt my dislike for him growing
day by day. And he is coming back, as he thinks, to
marry mc — you remember what he said in his last
letter. And Dr. Carey writes that he has really kept
his word this time. Oh, tell me what can I do ? what
can I do ? I don't want to be cruel to him — I don't
want to drive him to that ; but whatever happens, I
cannot marry him, I cannot ! I cannot ! I cannot !
Re-enter hizziE, r.
'Lizzie. They've sent over from the church, sir.
The folks are all there, and they're waiting for you to
go on with the wedding.
Rev. p. Yery well, Lizzie, 111 come at once.
{Exit Lizzie, l.) I must go. Don't give way, dear.
I'll come back as soon as the wedding is over.
ACT IV THE PHYSICIAN 103
Edana. And you'll think of some way of breaking
it to him without
Rev. p. Without breaking your heart and without
breaking his ? Yes, I must think of some way. I
must think of some way.
{Exit L., puzzling and anxious. Edana, left
alone^ goes to table, sits, and buries her
face in hands. Dr. Carey appears at
the window r., and watcJies her with
great interest for some moments without
her seeing him ; at length, in turning,
•I she catches sight of him ; stops.)
Edana. Dr. Carey {A little alarmed.)
Dr. C. {through the tvindozi: He is bronzed as if
with a long sea voyage). May I come in ?
Edana. Is any one with you ?
Dr. C. No, I am alone.
Edana. Will you go round ?
{He disappears at back. Enters L., looks at
her with great interest, anxiety, lotiging,
and affection. )
Dr. C. Are you better ?
Edana. Yes.
Dr. C. No one in the house ?
Edana. No, they are gone to the wedding. Are
you alone ?
Dr. C. Yes — quite — for the time. {Taking her
hands.) Let me look at you. You've been very ill ?
Edana. Yes. It was that dreadful night. I didn't
I04 THE PHYSICIAN act iv
feel it at the time, but after you and he had gone, I
felt — I {Shudders^ thm suddenly breaks down and
sobs out.) Oh, I'm so glad you've come back !
{Sobbing.)
Dr. C. Come, come, I must have you brave !
Edana {a little recm-critv:^). \\here is he?
Dr. C. I've not brought him to Fontleas.
Edana. Is he better — well ?
Dr. C. Quite well.
Edana. Where is he ?
Dr. C. I had to hurry to Euroix;, because I
wanted to get to India at once and deal with this
fresh outbreak of the plague. So I had to leave him.
Edana. Ixjave him ? Where ?
Dr. C. He hasn't come by this vessel. He won't
be back for some weeks — jierhaps months.
( Watching her very closely.)
Edana. Oh, I'm so glad I
Dr. C. {with a sudden light of hope in his face).
Glad ? {Looks at her again with an.xious interrogation. )
Glad ? {She nods.) Miss Hinde, what do you mean ?
Edana. I cannot marry him. (Dr. Carey's /o^^
brightens with tlie utmost excitement of hope.) I must
write and tell him. Dr. Carey, if he knows that our
engagement is broken off and that I can never see
him again, will it harm him? Will it drive him to
despair and — worse ?
Dr. C. No.
Edana. You're sure ?
"ACT IV THE PIIYSICIAX 105
Dr. C. Quite sure. Miss Hinde, three days before
we sailed, he left mc. I feared what had happened.
I saw no more of him till an hour before the ship was
due to leave. He came on board a perfect wreck ; he
had been sleeping in the rain, and was very ill
Edan.a. (Jo on.
Dk. C. He had a few days of awful agony and
remorse, and then pneumonia set in. He passed
away very peacefully {iccdding hymn in church), and
asked me to beg you to forgive him.
Ed.\n.\. I forgive him. And you — what will you
do?
■* Dk. C. I go to India, unless — unless
{He holds out his arms to her with a gesture
0/ ionging entreaty. She goes to him very
simply. He utters a great cry of satisfied
love as she falls into his arms.)
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